Well,    after   all- 


UNIT.  OF  CALIF.  LIBRARY.  LOS  ANCELE* 


?-  «. 


Klarf"    Ho  ore 


Well,  after  all — - 

By  F.  FRANKFORT  MOORE 

Author  of  I  FORBID  THE  BANNS, 
THE  JESSAMY  BRIDE,  A  GRAY 
EYE  OR  So,  THE  MILLIONAIRES, 
THE  FATAL  GIFT,  ETC.,  ETC. 

Y  •&  •*•  •$"  ^"N 


M^  "^  * 
CVS   CYS 


O^  ( 


NEW  YORK 

DODD,  MEAD  &  COMPANY 

1899 


COPYRIGHT,  1899,  by 
F.  FRANKFORT  MOORE 


Well,  After  All— 


CHAPTER  I. 

"  IT  was  an  interesting  scene,  beyond  doubt,"  said 
Mr.  Westwood,  the  senior  partner  in  the  Bracken- 
shire  Bank  of  Westwood,  Westwood,  Barwell,  & 
Westwood.  "Yes,  I  felt  more  than  once  greatly 
interested  in  the  course  of  the  day." 

"Greatly  interested?  Greatly  interested?"  said 
Cyril  Mowbray,  his  second  repetition  of  the  words 
being  a  note  or  two  higher  than  the  first.  "  Greatly 
int —  Oh,  well,  perhaps  you  had  your  own  rea- 
sons for  feeling  interested  in  so  trivial  an  incident 
as  a  run  on  your  bank  that  might  have  made  you  a 
beggar  in  an  hour  or  two.  Yes,  I  shouldn't  wonder 
if  I  myself  would  have  had  my  interest  aroused — to 
a  certain  extent — had  I  been  in  your  place,  Dick." 

Mr.  Westwood  laughed  with  an  excellent  as- 
sumption of  indifference,  a  minute  or  two  after  his 
friend  had  spoken.  Cyril  could  not  understand 
why  he  had  not  laughed  at  once;  but  that  ^as 
probably  because  he  had  not  been  brought  up  as 
the  senior  partner  in  a  banking  business,  or,  for  that 
matter,  in  any  other  business. 

"The  fact  is,"  said  Mr.  Westwood  thoughtfully, 
5 


2131489 


6  WELL,  AFTER  ALL • 

when  his  laugh  had  dwindled  into  a  smile,  as  a 
breeze  on  the  water  dwindles  into  a  cat's-paw, 
"the  fact  is,  Cyril,  my  lad,  I've  always  been  more 
or  less  interested  in  observing  men — men  " — 

"  And  women — women,"  said  Cyril  with  a  laugh. 
"  You  had  a  chance  of  observing  a  woman  or  two 
to-day,  hadn't  you  ?  I  noticed  that  Mrs.  Lithgow — 
the  little  widow — among  the  crowd  who  clamoured 
for  their  money — yes,  and  that  Miss  Swanston — she 
was  there  too.  She  looked  twenty  years  older  than 
she  is,  even  assuming  that  the  estimate  of  her  age 
made  by  the  women  in  our  neighbourhood  is  cor- 
rect." 

"Yes,  I  was  always  interested  in  observing  my 
feilow-men,"  said  Mr.  Westwood  musingly.  "I 
noticed  those  women  to-day.  They  were  worth  it. 
Women  always  give  themselves  away  upon  such 
an  occasion.  Men  seldom  do." 

"  By  George,  Dick,  there  were  some  men  in  the 
crowd  *hat  filled  the  bank  to-day  who  gave  them- 
selves away  quite  as  badly  as  the  women!"  said 
Cyril. 

"No  doubt;  but  some  of  them  met  me  with 
smiles  and  made  a  remark  or  two  regarding  the  ex- 
traordinary weather  we  have  been  having  for  May; 
they  wondered  if  the  good  old-fashioned  summers 
were  gone  for  ever — some  of  them  went  so  far  as 
to  express  a  sudden  interest  in  my  pheasants,  before 
they  came  to  business.  But  the  women — they 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 7 

made  no  pretence — they  wasted  no  time  in  prelimi- 
nary chatter.  '  My  money — my  money — give  me 
my  money! '  was  what  each  of  them  gasped.  They 
showed  their  teeth  like— like  " — 

"Wolves?" 

"Vampires  rather,  man.  Isn't  it  wonderful  that 
a  woman — a  lady — can  change  her  natural  expres- 
sion of  calm — the  repose  that  stamps  the  caste  of 
Vere  de  Vere — to  that  of  a  Harpy  in  a  moment  ?  It 
makes  one  thoughtful,  doesn't  it?  Which  is  the 
real  woman,  Cyril — the  one  who  smiles  pleasantly 
on  you  and  insists  on  your  taking  another  hot  but- 
tered muffin  as  you  loll  in  one  of  her  easy-chairs  in 
front  of  her  drawing-room  fire,  or  the  one  who 
rushes  trembling  into  your  office  and  stretches  out  a 
lean  talon-like  gloveless  hand,  glaring  at  you  all  the 
time,  with  a  cry — some  shrill,  others  hoarse — of 
'My  money! — give  me  my  money!' — which  is  the 
real  woman  ?" 

"They  are  not  two  but  one," said  Cyril.  "Thun- 
der and  lightning  are  as  natural  as  sunshine  and 
zephyr.  Revenge  is  as  much  a  part  of  a  woman's 
nature  as  love;  constancy  does  not  exclude  jeal- 
ousy. A  woman  is  a  rather  complex  piece  of  ma- 
chinery, Dick." 

"What!  Has  Lothario  turned  philosopher?" 
cried  Mr.  Westwood.  "Has  Mr.  Cyril  Mowbray 
become  a  student  of  woman  in  the  abstract  and  an 
exponent  of  her  nature  ?  " 


8  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 


"Mr.  Cyril  Mowbray  isn't  quite  such  a  fool  as  to 
fancy  that  he  knows  anything  about  the  nature  of 
woman  beyond  what  any  man  who  keeps  his  eyes 
open  may  know;  only,  when  he  hears  a  cynic  such 
as  Dick  Westwood  suggest  that  a  woman  can't  be 
sincere  when  she  asks  you  to  have  another  piece  of 
toast — or  was  it  cake  ? — because  he  has  seen  her 
anxious  to  get  into  her  own  hand  her  own  money 
that  is  to  keep  her  out  of  the  workhouse,  Mr.  Cyril 
Mowbray  ventures  to  make  a  remark." 

"And  a  wise  remark,  too,"  said  Westwood. 
"  I've  noticed  that  women  believe  in  the  men  who 
believe  in  them.  They  believe  in  you  " — 

"Worse  luck!"  muttered  Cyril. 

"And  they  don't  believe  in  me — shall  I  say,  better 
luck?" 

"They  believed  in  you  sufficiently  to  place  their 
money  in  your  bank." 

"  But  not  sufficiently  to  be  confident  that  I  would 
refrain  from  swindling  them  out  of  it,  should  I  have 
the  chance.  There's  the  difference  between  us — the 
difference  in  a  nutshell.  If  the  bank  was  yours  and 
the  rumour  came,  unaccountably  as  all  such  ru- 
mours come,  that  you  were  insolvent,  the  women 
whose  money  you  held  would  say,  '  Let  him  keep 
it  and  welcome,  even  if  we  have  to  go  to  the  work- 
house.' But  the  moment  they  hear  that  there  is  a 
chance  of  my  not  being  able  to  pay  my  way,  down 
they  swoop  upon  me  as  the  Harpies  swooped  down 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL- 


upon  Odysseus  and  his  partners.  And  yet  I  have 
been  quite  as  nice  to  women  as  you  have  ever  been 
— in  fact,  I  might  almost  say  I've  been  rather  nicer. 
After  all,  they  only  entrusted  their  cash  to  my  keep- 
ing, whereas  to  you  they  entrust" — 

"Worse  luck — worse  luck!"  groaned  Cyril. 
"That  brings  us  back  to  the  matter  we  talked  over 
when  we  were  last  together.  Poor  Lizzie  Dangan ! 
You  told  me  that  I  should  confess  all  to  my  sister; 
but,  hang  it  all,  I  can't  do  that!  I  tell  you,  Dick,  I 
can't  bring  myself  to  do  it." 

"Psha!  Let  us  talk  of  something  else;  I  haven't 
much  inclination  to  give  myself  up  to  the  discus- 
sion of  such  trifles  after  what  I  have  come  through 
to-day.  Heavens!  how  can  you  expect  a  man 
who  has  passed  through  such  a  crisis  as  only 
comes  into  few  men's  lives,  to  discuss  the  love 
affair  of  a  boy  and  girl  ?  Do  you  suppose  that  the 
men  who  had  walked  over  the  red-hot  plough- 
shares would  have  made  a  sympathetic  audience  to 
the  bard  who  had  just  composed  a  ballad  about 
Edwin  and  Angelina  ?  Do  you  think  it  likely  that 
the  three  young  men  who  passed  through  the 
seven-times  heated  furnace  of  King  Nebuchadnez- 
zar, or  somebody,  were  particularly  anxious,  on 
coming  out,  to  discuss  the  aesthetic  elements  in  the 
Song  of  Solomon  ?  " 

"A  few  minutes  ago  you  were  referring  to  the 
run  on  the  bank  as  if  it  was  the  merest  trifle;  you 


to  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 

were  making  out  that  you  took  only  an  academic 
interest  in  the  incident." 

"So  I  did,  so  I  did;  yes,  while  it  lasted.  I'm 
convinced,  my  friend  Cyril,  that  a  man  who  is  be- 
ing married,  or  hanged,  or  tried  for  some  crime,  re- 
gards the  whole  affair  from  quite  an  impersonal 
standpoint.  Don't  you  remember  how  the  Tich- 
borne  Claimant,  on  being  asked  on  the  hundredth 
day  of  his  trial  something  about  what  was  going 
on,  said,  '  My  dear  sir,  I've  long  ago  ceased  to  have 
any  interest  in  this  particular  case'  ?" 

"Yes,  but  the  Tichborne  Claimant  was  the  most 
highly  perjured  man  of  the  century." 

"He  drifted  into  accuracy  upon  the  occasion  to 
which  I  refer.  Psha!  never  mind.  Here  we  are  at 
the  gates,  safe  and  sound,  thank  Heaven! — yes, 
thank  Heaven  and  your  sister.  Cyril,  you  should 
be  proud  of  her.  I'm  proud  of  her.  What  she  did 
went  a  long  way  toward  saving  the  bank." 

"If  those  fools  who  were  clamouring  at  the 
desks  had  only  paused  for  a  minute  they  would 
have  known  that  the  lodgment  of  a  cheque  could 
not  save  the  bank." 

"  But  Agnes  was  clever  enough  to  know  that 
panic-stricken  men  and  women  do  not  pause  to  con- 
sider such  things.  When  they  knew  that  your  sis- 
ter had  lodged  a  cheque  for  ^15,000  they  became 
reassured  in  a  moment.  You  saw  how  the  men 
who  had  drawn  out  their  money  at  one  desk  re- 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL i! 

lodged  it  at  another?  That's  what's  meant  by  a 
panic:  the  sheep  that  rush  wildly  down  one  side  of 
a  field  will,  if  turned,  rush  quite  as  wildly  back." 

"Anyhow,  it's  all  over  now,  and  the  credit  of  the 
bank  is  stronger  than  ever.  1  wish  mine  was. 
What's  that  man  doing  at  the  side  of  the  gate?" 

Cyril's  voice  had  lowered  as  he  asked  the  ques- 
tion. He  touched  his  friend's  arm  as  he  spoke. 

"Why,  can't  you  see  that  that's  Ralph  Dangan  ? 
What's  strange  about  a  gamekeeper  being  at  the 
entrance  to  the  park?"  said  Westwood.  Then,  as 
the  dog-cart  passed,  the  man  in  corduroy,  who  was 
standing  just  inside  the  entrance  gates,  touched  his 
hat.  Westwood  raised  his  whip-arm  replying  to 
his  salutation,  and  cried,  "Good  evening  to  you, 
Ralph." 

Cyril  also  raised  his  finger,  and  nodded  to  the 
man.  But  having  done  so  he  drew  a  long  breath. 

Westwood  laughed. 

.  "  '  The  thief  doth  think  each  bush  an  officer,'  "  he 
said,  shaking  his  head  at  his  companion. 

"I've  been  an  awful  scoundrel,  Dick,"  said  Cyril. 

"  I'm  a  polite  man.  I'll  not  contradict  you,"  said 
Westwood.  "You  have  every  reason  to  be  afraid 
of  poor  Lizzie's  father,  especially  as  his  employment 
makes  it  necessary  for  him  to  have  a  gun  with  him 
at  all  times.  An  angry  father  who  is  a  first-class 
shot  with  a  gun  is  a  man  to  be  avoided  by  the  im- 
pulsive sweethearts  of  his  daughter." 


12  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 

"I  can  trust  Lizzie,"  said  Cyril. 

' '  At  any  rate,  she  trusted  you.     More's  the  pity !  " 

Cyril  groaned. 

"  What  am  I  to  do,  Dick — what  am  I  to  do  ?  "  he 
asked  almost  piteously. 

"  I  think  the  best  thing  that  you  can  do  is  to  go 
out  to  Africa  in  search  of  Claude,"  he  replied. 
"Such  chaps  as  you  should  be  sent  to  the  interior 
of  Africa  in  their  infancy.  You're  savages  by  na- 
ture. I  suppose  we  are  all  more  or  less  savages; 
but  you  see,  some  of  us  become  amenable  to  the  in- 
fluences of  civilisation  and  Christianity,  so  that  we 
manage  to  keep  moderately  straight.  But,  really, 
after  the  example  we  have  had  to-day  of  savagery, 
I,  for  one,  do  not  feel  inclined  to  boast  of  the  influ- 
ences of  civilisation,  the  foremost  of  which  should 
certainly  be  the  power  to  reason.  Heavens!  the 
way  those  men  and  women  glared  at  the  clerks — the 
way  they  struggled  to  get  to  the  cashiers.  By  my 
soul,  Cyril,  I  believe  that  if  they  had  not  got  their 
money  they  would  have  climbed  over  the  counter 
and  torn  the  clerks  limb  from  limb — the  women 
would  have  done  that — they  would,  by  heavens!" 

"I  believe  they  would,  all  except  Patty  Graves. 
She  is  engaged  to  young  Wilson,  and  she  would 
have  protected  him  with  her  life,"  laughed  Cyril. 

"The  savage  instinct  again,"  cried  Westwood. 
"  Alas,  Cyril,  my  lad,  I'm  afraid  that  our  civilisation 
is  nothing  more  than  a  very  thin  veneer  after  all." 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL. 


Then  the  dog-cart  pulled  up  at  the  entrance  to  the 
hall,  where  a  groom  went  to  the  horse's  head  while 
the  two  men,  whose  thoughts  had  clearly  been 
moving  on  lines  that  were  far  from  parallel,  got 
down  and  entered  the  old  house. 

Cyril  turned  into  the  cloak-room  of  the  hall 
whistling,  for  his  troubles  did  not  weigh  him  quite 
down  to  the  ground;  and  Richard  Westwood,  also 
whistling,  went  up  the  shallow  oak  staircase,  fol- 
lowed by  a  couple  of  small  spaniels,  who  had  re- 
sponded with  lowered  muzzles  and  frantic  tails  to 
his  greeting. 

But  when  he  had  entered  his  dressing-room  his 
affected  nonchalance  ceased.  He  dropped  into  an 
easy-chair  and  wiped  his  forehead  with  trembling 
hands.  Then  he  leant  forward  and  stared  into  the 
empty  grate,  as  if  he  saw  something  there  that  de- 
manded his  most  earnest  scrutiny. 

He  gazed  at  that  emptiness  for  a  long  time,  the 
dogs  inquiring  in  turn  what  he  meant,  and  assuring 
him  that  it  was  impossible  that  a  rabbit  could  be  in 
any  of  the  dark  corners.  When  he  paid  no  atten- 
tion to  them  they  retired  to  the  window  to  discuss 
his  mood  between  themselves. 


CHAPTER  II. 

FOR  three  hours  Richard  Westwood  had  been  sub- 
jected to  a  severer  strain  than  most  men  have  to 
submit  to  in  the  course  of  their  lives.  He  was,  as 
has  already  been  stated,  the  senior  partner  in  the 
chief  banking  house  of  Brackenshire — an  old  and 
highly-respected  establishment.  In  fact,  there  was 
a  time  when  the  stability  of  the  house  of  West- 
wood,  Westwood,  Harwell,  &  Westwood  was  re- 
garded as  at  least  equal  to  that  of  the  county  itself. 
Only  an  earthquake  could,  it  was  thought,  produce 
any  impression  upon  an  English  wheat-growing 
county,  and  a  cataclysm  of  corresponding  violence 
in  the  financial  world  would  be  required  to  shake 
the  stability  of  Westwoods'  Bank. 

But  in  the  course  of  time  the  importation  of 
wheat  in  thousands  of  tons  from  America  and  else- 
where caused  the  most  earnest  believers  in  the  sta- 
bility of  an  English  agricultural  county  to  stand 
aghast;  and  then  a  day  came  when  a  bank  or  two 
of  quite  as  great  respectability  as  Westwoods' 
closed  their  doors  and  stopped  payment  all  inside  a 
single  week.  In  a  country  where  people  talk  about 
things  being  "  as  safe  as  the  bank"  such  an  occur- 
rence produces  an  impression  similar  to  that  of  a 
thunderstorm  in  December  or  a  frozen  lake  in  June: 

«4 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 15 

people  begin  to  question  the  accuracy  of  their 
senses.  If  the  bank  where  they  and  their  fathers 
and  grandfathers  have  deposited  their  money  for 
years  back  beyond  any  remembrance,  closes  its 
doors,  what  is  there  on  earth  that  can  be  trusted  ? 

It  was  toward  the  close  of  this  phenomenal  week 
that  the  rumour  arose  in  Brackenhurst  that  West- 
woods'  Bank  would  be  the  next  to  fall.  No  one 
knew  where  the  rumour  originated — no  one  knew 
what  foundation  there  was  for  such  a  rumour — no 
one  who  had  money  lodged  in  the  bank  seemed  to 
inquire. 

Even  up  to  noon  on  the  day  when  the  run  upon 
the  Brackenhurst  offices  took  place,  nothing  oc- 
curred to  suggest  that  a  panic  was  imminent  among 
the  customers  of  the  bank.  For  two  hours  the 
business  of  the  establishment  was  normal;  Mr. 
Westwood  was  in  his  own  room,  discussing  with 
his  solicitor  the  validity  of  some  documents  offered 
as  security  for  an  overdraft  by  a  local  firm;  the 
cashier,  having  received  a  few  small  lodgments,  was 
writing  a  letter  to  the  Secretary  of  the  Styrton 
Cricket  Club  regarding  the  visit  of  the  Bracken- 
hurst Eleven  on  the  Saturday;  two  of  the  other 
members  of  the  staff  were  considering  the  very  im- 
portant question  as  to  whether  they  should  have 
their  cups  of  coffee  at  once  or  wait  for  another  half- 
hour,  when,  with  the  suddenness  of  a  quick  change 
of  scenery  at  a  well-managed  theatre,  the  swing- 


16  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 


doors  were  flung  open  and  the  bank  was  filled  to 
overflowing  with  an  eager  crowd,  crushing  one  an- 
other against  the  mahogany  counters  in  their  en- 
deavours to  reach  the  stand  of  the  cashier. 

Panic-stricken  were  the  faces  at  which  the  cashier 
looked  up  from  his  half-finished  letter — faces  that 
communicated  their  panic  to  all  who  saw  them. 
The  cashier  caught  it  in  a  moment:  he  glanced 
hastily  round  as  if  seeking  for  a  way  of  escape. 

The  men  and  women,  perceiving  that  he  had  lost 
his  head,  became  wilder  in  their  attempts  to  get 
opposite  his  desk.  Outside,  the  crowd,  striving  to 
reach  the  doors  of  the  bank,  had  become  clamorous. 
The  High  Street  of  Brackenhurst  was  in  an  uproar. 
The  two  clerks  had  ceased  to  discuss  the  great  coffee 
question.  They  were  thinking  of  their  revolvers. 

As  the  panic-stricken  cashier  stood  looking  va- 
cantly into  the  pale  faces  before  him,  but  making 
no  effort  to  attend  to  the  three  men  who  waved 
their  cheques  across  the  counter,  Mr.  Westwood 
came  out  of  his  room  by  the  side  of  his  solicitor. 
He  was  smiling  as  he  shook  hands  and  said  good- 
bye. There  was  an  instantaneous  silence  in  the 
place. 

"  We  shall  see  you  at  the  cricket  match  on  Satur- 
day," were  the  words  that  came  through  the  silence 
from  Mr.  Westwood,  as  he  shook  hands  with  the 
other  man.  "If  the  weather  continues  like  this  it 
will  be  a  batsman's  day." 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 17 

He  waved  his  hand  as  the  solicitor  went  out  into 
the  crowd.  The  crowd  that  had  been  almost 
clamorous  a  minute  before  were  now  breathless 
with  astonishment.  They  stared  at  the  man  who, 
when  ruin  was  in  the  air,  was  talking  of  cricket. 
A  batsman's  day!  A  batsman's  day!  What  did  it 
mean  ?  What  manner  of  man  was  this  who  could 
talk  quietly  of  a  batsman's  day  when  over  his  head 
the  sword  of  Damocles  was  hanging  ? 

The  silence  was  unnatural ;  it  became  terrifying. 
Every  one  watched  Mr.  Westwood  as  he  walked 
round  to  where  the  cashier  was  standing.  He  paid 
no  attention  to  the  clerk,  but  glancing  across  the 
counter,  nodded  pleasantly  to  one  of  the  men  who 
had  been  waving  the  cheques,  like  pink  flags,  in  the 
direction  of  the  desk. 

"  Good  day,  Mr.  Simons,"  said  he.  "  What  a  dry 
spell  we  are  having.  They  talk  of  the  good  old- 
fashioned  summers — how  is  it  you  are  not  being  at- 
tended to?"  He  turned  to  the  cashier.  "Come, 
Mr.  Calmour,  if  you  please;  I  fear  I  must  ask  you  to 
stir  yourself;  it's  likely  to  be  a  busy  day.  You 
want  a  cheque  cashed,  Mr.  Simons  ?  Certainly. 
You  also  have  your  cheque,  Mr.  Thorburn,  and  you, 
Mrs.  Langley  ?" 

"We  want  our  money,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Langley. 
She  was  a  tall,  bony  lady,  who  had  been  the  first  to 
enter  the  bank.  She  was  the  principal  of  the 
Ladies'  Collegiate  School. 


18  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 

"So  I  understand,  my  dear  lady,"  said  Mr.  West- 
wood.  "You  shall  have  every  penny  of  your 
money." 

From  every  part  of  the  crowd  hands  were  thrust, 
each  waving  a  pink  cheque.  The  people  were  no 
longer  silent.  One  or  two  men  of  those  nearest  to 
Mr.  Westwood  nodded  to  him.  One  made  a  sort 
of  apology  for  asking  for  his  balance  at  once — a 
sudden  demand  from  a  creditor  compelled  him  to  do 
so,  he  said,  with  a  very  weak  smile.  Another 
hoped  Mr.  Westwood's  pheasants  promised  well. 
But  beyond  these  actors  were  men  with  staring  eyes, 
women  with  white  faces  become  haggard  within  a 
few  minutes,  small  tradesmen  bareheaded  and  still 
wearing  their  aprons,  artisans  who  had  saved  a  few 
pounds  and  had  placed  all  in  the  keeping  of  the 
bank,  clergymen  as  anxious  to  draw  their  balance  as 
their  churchwardens,  and  painfully  surprised  that 
their  parishioners  should  decline  to  give  away  to 
them  in  the  common  struggle  to  reach  the  counters. 

The  banker  ceased  to  smile  as  he  glanced  across 
the  crowd.  He  turned  to  the  cashier,  who  had 
already  got  into  action,  so  to  speak,  and  was  noting 
cheques  preparatory  to  paying  them. 

"We  shall  have  a  busy  hour  or  two,  Mr.  Cal- 
mour,"  the  head  of  the  firm  was  heard  to  say. 
"Pay  away  all  your  gold  without  the  delay  of  a 
moment.  I  shall  bring  you  another  ten  thousand 
from  the  strong  room." 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 19 

One  could  almost  hear  the  sigh  of  relief  that  passed 
round  the  crowd  as  Mr.  Westwood  hurried  into  his 
own  room.  Two  clerks  had  come  to  the  cashier's 
desk  bringing  their  books  with  them,  and  now  the 
three  members  of  the  staff  were  hard  at  work,  pay- 
ing away  gold  in  exchange  for  cheques.  Within 
the  space  of  a  few  minutes  the  bank  porter,  fol- 
lowed by  Mr.  Westwood,  entered  the  cashier's 
cubicle  staggering  beneath  the  weight  of  two  large 
leathern  bags,  strapped  and  sealed.  He  threw 
them  on  the  counter  with  a  dull  crash — the  sweet- 
est music  known  to  the  sons  of  men — and  to 
the  daughters  of  men  as  well — the  crash  of  minted 
gold. 

Mr.  Westwood  broke  the  seals  of  one,  and  in  view 
of  every  one  who  had  managed  to  crush  near 
enough  to  see,  sent  a  glittering  stream  of  yellow 
gold  flowing  from  the  mouth  of  the  bag  into  the 
cashier's  till.  He  pressed  the  sovereigns  and  half- 
sovereigns  flat  with  his  hand  and  continued  pouring 
until  the  receptacle  could  hold  no  more.  Then  he 
laid  the  bag,  still  half-full,  in  a  deep  drawer,  and  by 
its  side  he  placed  the  second  bag  with  the  seal  still 
unbroken. 

This  second  bag  was  apparently  even  heavier 
than  the  first,  for  Mr.  Westwood  had  to  put  forth 
all  his  strength  to  lift  it  from  the  counter  to  the 
drawer.  An  hour  afterwards  one  of  the  clerks  was 
able  to  lift  it  between  his  finger  and  thumb,  and 


20  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 


was  astonished  beyond  measure  at  Mr.  Westwood's 
cleverness  in  suggesting  to  the  clamorous  crowd 
that  the  second  bag  was  like  the  first,  full  of  gold, 
when  it  was  quite  empty. 

But  when  the  business  of  replenishing  the  cash- 
ier's till  had  been  gone  through,  Mr.  Westwood  re- 
tired to  watch  the  operations  incidental  to  the  cash- 
ing of  the  cheques.  The  technique  of  the  trans- 
action was  much  more  tedious  than  it  usually  was; 
for  as  every  cheque  presented  was  drawn  for  the 
balance  of  an  account,  the  cashier  had  to  verify  the 
figures,  which  involved  the  working  out  of  two 
sums  in  compound  addition,  whereas  the  normal 
work  of  cashing  a  cheque  required  only  a  glance  at 
the  figures.  Rapidly  though  the  cashier  now  made 
his  calculations,  several  minutes  were  still  occupied 
in  comparing  the  figures,  and  in  more  than  one  in- 
stance it  was  found  that  the  drawer  of  the  cheque 
had  made  a  mistake  in  his  addition  through  his 
haste  in  writing  up  his  pass-book.  It  became  per- 
fectly plain  to  every  one,  especially  those  applicants 
who  were  still  very  far  in  the  background,  that  only 
a  small  proportion  of  the  cheques  could  be  paid  up 
to  the  time  of  the  bank  closing  its  doors. 

Dissatisfied  murmurs  filled  the  office;  outside 
there  was  a  clamour  of  many  voices. 

At  this  point  Mr.  Westwood  came  forward. 

"  It  is  quite  plain,  ladies  and  gentlemen,"  said  he, 
addressing  the  crowd,  "that  at  the  present  rate  of 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 21 

cashing  your  cheques,  not  a  tenth  of  you  can  be 
satisfied  to-day.  I  will  therefore  instruct  my  cash- 
ier to  give  you  gold  for  your  cheques  without  go- 
ing too  closely  into  the  exact  balance.  I  will  trust 
to  the  honour  of  the  customers  of  the  bank  to  make 
good  to-morrow  any  error  they  have  made  in  their 
figures,  and  I  have  also  given  instructions  for  the 
doors  of  the  bank  to  remain  open  an  hour  longer 
than  usual." 

There  was  a  distinct  brightening  of  faces  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  the  cashier's  desk,  and  a  cheer 
came  from  the  people  beyond.  It  was  plain  that 
the  production  of  the  bag  of  gold  and  the  dummy 
bag  had  done  much  to  allay  the  panic,  but  it  was 
also  plain  that  the  confidence  shown  by  Mr.  West- 
wood  in  the  resources  of  the  bank  to  meet  the 
severest  strain,  had  done  much  more  than  his  adroit 
handling  of  the  gold  to  restore  the  shaken  trust  of 
his  customers.  Fully  a  dozen  men  pushed  their 
cheques  into  their  pockets  and  left  the  bank. 

Their  departure,  however,  only  served  to  make 
room  for  the  entrance  of  an  equal  number  of  the 
crowd  who  had  not  been  able  to  crush  their  way 
into  the  bank  previously. 

Mr.  Westwood  leant  across  the  counter  and 
chatted  with  one  of  the  tradesmen  who  had  been 
in  the  front  rank  of  those  who  wished  to  draw  out 
their  balance.  He  now  said  to  the  banker  that  he 
had  come  to  make  an  inquiry  about  a  bill  of  his 


22  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 

drawn  upon  a  trader  in  a  neighbouring  town;  he 
was  anxious  to  know  if  it  had  been  honoured.  The 
bill  clerk  had  given  him  the  information,  and  now 
he  was  doing  his  best  to  respond  to  the  friendly 
chat  of  Mr.  Westwood. 

Some  clever  people  who  watched  these  intervals 
of  comedy  in  the  course  of  the  tragedy  which  they 
believed  was  being  enacted,  said  that  Mr.  West- 
wood  had  nerves  of  steel.  Others  of  the  visitors  to 
the  bank,  not  being  clever  enough  to  perceive  that 
Mr.  Westwood  was  acting  a  part  with  great  ability, 
felt  that  they  were  fools  in  doubting  the  solvency 
of  a  concern  the  head  of  which  could  treat  such  an 
incident  as  a  run  on  his  bank  as  an  everyday  matter. 
They  did  not  press  forward  with  their  cheques. 
They  pocketed  their  cheques  and  looked  ashamed. 

Mr.  Westwood  would  have  been  greatly  disap- 
pointed if  they  had  continued  to  press  forward.  He 
had  been  a  good  friend  to  many  of  them.  He  knew 
that  they  would  not  have  the  courage  to  draw  their 
balances  under  his  very  eyes,  as  if  they  believed 
him  to  be  a  rogue. 

And  then  his  personal  attendant  came  to  tell  him 
that  his  midday  cup  of  coffee  awaited  him,  and  he 
said  a  word  about  Saturday's  cricket  match  to  the 
tradesmen  before  nodding  good-bye.  Before  re- 
turning to  his  private  room,  however,  he  stood  be- 
side the  cashier  for  a  moment,  and  his  smile 
changed  to  a  slight  frown. 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 


"Oh,  Mr.  Calmour,  can  you  not  contrive  to  be  a 
little  more  expeditious  ?  "  he  said.  "  We  shall  never 
get  through  all  the  business  in  the  time  if  you  are 
not  a  trifle  quicker.  Could  not  Mr.  Combes  make 
up  rouleaux  of  ten  and  twenty  sovereigns  so  as  to 
have  them  ready  for  you  to  distribute  ?  Come,  Mr. 
Combes,  stir  yourself.  Every  cheque  must  be  paid 
within  the  next  hour." 

Mr.  Combes  stirred  himself  —  so  did  Mr.  Calmour 
—  yes,  for  a  short  time;  then  it  seemed  that  he 
shovelled  out  the  sovereigns  with  more  deliberation 
than  ever;  for  he  had  felt  Mr.  Westwood's  toe 
pressing  upon  one  of  his  own  as  he  had  given  him 
that  admonition  to  be  more  expeditious.  The  cashier 
had  long  ago  recovered  his  wits.  He  was  well 
aware  of  the  fact  that,  although  Mr.  Westwood's 
style  was  calculated  to  allay  distrust,  yet  every 
minute's  delay  might  mean  hundreds  of  pounds 
saved  to  the  bank.  He  understood  his  business, 
and  that  was  why  he  thought  it  prudent  to  count 
one  of  the  piles  of  sovereigns  passed  to  him  by  his 
assistant,  young  Mr.  Combes,  and  to  declare  with 
some  heat  that  it  was  a  sovereign  short,  a  proceed- 
ing that  necessitated  a  second  count,  and  the  passing 
of  the  rouleaux  back  to  the  clerk. 

And  this  waste  of  time  —  this  precious  waste  of 
time  that  went  to  save  an  old-established  house  from 
ruin  —  was  watched  by  Richard  Westwood  from  a 
clear  corner  half  an  inch  in  diameter  in  the  stained- 


24  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 


glass  window  of  his  private  room  door.  He  was 
not  drinking  his  coffee.  The  cup,  with  a  liqueur  of 
cognac,  stood  on  his  desk  untouched.  He  had  fallen 
on  his  knees  below  the  glass  of  his  door,  not  to  pray 
— though  a  prayer  was  in  his  heart — but  in  order  to 
get  his  eye  opposite  that  little  clear  space,  which 
enabled  him  to  observe,  without  being  observed,  all 
that  went  on  outside. 

He  made  up  his  mind  that  if  his  cashier  only 
wasted  enough  time  to  save  the  bank  he  would  give 
him  an  increase  in  salary  from  that  very  day. 

He  returned  to  the  public  office  munching  a  bis- 
cuit, in  less  than  half  an  hour;  and  he  saw  that  once 
more  his  affectation  of  unconcern  was  producing  a 
good  impression.  While  he  was  absent  there  had 
been  a  good  deal  of  noise  in  the  public  office.  Men 
who  had  just  entered  were  shouldering  women  aside 
in  their  anxiety  to  reach  the  cashier,  and  the  women 
— some  of  them  ladies — had  not  hesitated  to  call 
them  blackguards  and  rowdies — so  shockingly  de- 
moralised had  they  become  in  the  race  for  their 
gold.  Half  a  dozen  police  constables  entered  the 
public  office,  but  not  in  time  to  prevent  a  serious 
altercation. 

The  nonchalance  of  Richard  Westwood  when  he 
once  more  appeared  caused  the  newcomers  to  stare. 
How  could  he  continue  munching  a  biscuit  if  his 
business  was  at  the  point  of  falling  to  pieces  ?  "  Men 
do  not  munch  biscuits  when  they  know  themselves 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 25 

to  be  on  the  brink  of  a  precipice,"  the  people  were 
saying. 

And  then  there  came  a  sudden  shriek  from  a  lady 
who  was  fainting;  and  when  she  was  carried  out, 
there  came  a  shrill  cry  from  another  who,  with  a 
wild  face  and  staring  eyes,  declared  that  her  pocket 
had  been  picked.  She  stood  shrieking  as  if  she  had 
lost  her  reason  with  her  purse,  and  then  she  clutched 
the  man  nearest  to  her  by  his  collar,  accusing  him 
of  having  robbed  her.  A  couple  of  constables  strug- 
gled through  the  crowd  until  they  got  beside  her, 
and  Mr.  Westwood  leaped  over  the  counter  and 
pushed  his  way  toward  her. 

He  hoped  that  a  few  more  exciting  incidents 
would  occur  within  the  hour;  every  incident  meant 
a  certain  amount  of  confusion  and,  consequently,  de- 
lay in  the  cashing  of  cheques.  Delay  meant  the 
saving  of  the  bank  from  utter  ruin. 

He  was  disappointed  in  this  one  promising  case: 
before  he  had  reached  the  woman  a  constable  had 
found  in  her  own  hand  the  money  which  she  ac- 
cused the  man  of  stealing.  She  had  never  loosed 
her  hold  upon  it,  though  with  the  other  hand  she 
still  clutched  the  unfortunate  man's  collar,  and  could 
with  difficulty  be  persuaded  to  relax  her  grasp,  pro- 
testing that  the  constables  were  in  a  conspiracy  to 
rob  her.  She  was  forced  into  the  street  in  a  condi- 
tion bordering  upon  insanity. 

The  atmosphere  had  become  charged  with  ex- 


26  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 

citement  as  a  cloud  becomes  charged  with  electricity, 
and  in  a  few  minutes  some  other  women  were  cry- 
ing out  that  they  had  been  robbed.  Richard  West- 
wood  was  becoming  more  hopeful,  though  he  saw 
with  regret  that,  in  front  of  the  cashier,  there  were  a 
dozen  stolid  tradesmen,  every  one  of  whom  had  a 
balance  of  at  least  a  thousand  pounds.  They  were 
waiting  their  turn  at  the  desk  with  complete  indif- 
ference to  the  scenes  that  were  being  enacted  behind 
them.  Within  half  an  hour  twelve  thousand  pounds 
would  be  paid  away,  Richard  Westwood  perceived. 
His  only  hope  was  that  the  panic  would  be  diverted 
into  another  channel — that  the  fools  who  had  lost 
their  heads  over  their  money  might  go  on  accusing 
one  another — accusing  the  constables — accusing  any 
one.  In  such  circumstances  the  police  might  insist 
on  the  doors  of  the  bank  being  closed  at  the  usual 
hour — nay,  even  before  the  usual  hour. 

But  while  he  was  pretending  to  be  exerting  him- 
self with  a  view  to  reassure  a  frantic  lady,  who  de- 
clared that  she  had  been  robbed  of  a  hundred 
pounds,  though  she  had  never  been  half-a-dozen 
yards  from  the  entrance,  and  had  consequently  not 
received  a  penny  from  the  cashier,  the  swing  doors 
were  flung  wide,  and  a  lady  with  a  young  man  by 
her  side  stepped  out  of  the  porch  and  looked  about 
her.  Richard  Westwood  saw  her,  and  his  face,  for 
the  first  time,  became  grave. 

Then  the  lady— she  was  a  handsome  woman,  tall 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 37 

and  dignified — gave  a  laugh,  and  in  a  moment  there 
was  silence  in  the  place  where  all  had  been  noise 
and  confusion.  All  eyes  were  turned  toward  the 
newcomers. 

"Great  Scott!"  cried  the  young  man — he  was 
perhaps  a  few  years  over  twenty,  and  he  bore  a 
strong  likeness  to  the  lady,  who  was  certainly  sev- 
eral years  older.  "Great  Scott!  What's  the  mat- 
ter here?  Hallo,  Westwood,  I  hope  we  don't  in- 
trude upon  a  Court  of  Sessions.  My  sister  has  come 
on  business,  but  if  you've  let  the  bank  " — 

"If  you  have  a  cheque  to  be  cashed,"  began  Mr. 
Westwood  gravely,  "  I  shall  do  my  best  to  " — 

"But  I  haven't  a  cheque  to  be  cashed,"  said  the 
lady.  "On  the  contrary,  I  have  some  money  to 
lodge  with  you;  fifteen  thousand  pounds — it's  too 
much  to  have  at  home;  it  wouldn't  be  safe  there, 
but  I  know  it's  perfectly  safe  here." 


CHAPTER  III. 

"YouR  money  will  be  perfectly  safe  here,  Miss 
Mowbray,"  said  the  banker  quietly.  "But  I'm 
afraid  my  clerks  are  too  busily  occupied  to  have  a 
moment  to  spare  to  receive  it  to-day,  unless  you 
wait  until  my  customers  get  their  cheques  cashed. 
You're  getting  well  through  your  business,  Mr. 
Calmour?"  he  added,  turning  to  the  cashier. 

"Slowly,  sir.  I  haven't  touched  the  second  bag 
of  twenty  thousand,"  replied  the  cashier. 

"I'm  sure  Cyril  will  be  able  to  reach  the  desk," 
said  the  lady,  "and  it  will  only  occupy  a  clerk  half 
a  minute  entering  the  lodgment.  Good  heavens! 
Mr.  Westwood,  it  takes  a  clerk  no  longer  to  re- 
ceive and  enter  up  a  cheque  for  fifteen  thousand 
pounds  than  it  does  for  a  single  note." 

Mr.  Westwood  gave  a  laugh  and  a  shrug  of  his 
shoulders. 

"  Give  me  the  cheque,"  said  Cyril.  "  I'll  lodge  it 
or  perish  in  the  attempt." 

The  good  humour  with  which  he  set  about  the 
task  of  forcing  his  way  through  the  crowd,  spread 
around.  The  people  who  a  few  minutes  before 
had  been  struggling  with  eager  faces  and  clenched 
hands  to  get  near  the  desks,  actually  laughed  as  the 
young  man,  holding  the  cheque  for  fifteen  thou- 

28 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 29 

sand  pounds  high  above  their  heads,  made  an  amus- 
ingly exaggerated  attempt  to  shoulder  his  way  for- 
ward. He  had  no  need  to  use  his  shoulders;  the 
people  divided  before  him  quite  good-naturedly. 
He  reached  the  cubicle  next  to  that  of  the  cashier's 
in  a  few  seconds,  and  handed  the  cheque  and  the 
pass-book  across  the  counter  to  a  clerk  who  had 
stepped  up  to  a  desk  to  receive  the  lodgment. 

The  silence  was  so  extraordinary  that  the  scratch- 
ing of  the  clerk's  pen  making  the  entry  was  heard 
all  over  the  place. 

And  then — then  there  came  a  curious  reaction 
from  the  excitement  of  the  previous  two  hours: 
the  tremendous  tension  upon  the  nerves  of  the  peo- 
ple who  fancied  they  were  on  the  verge  of  ruin, 
was  suddenly  relaxed.  There  came  a  clapping  of 
hands,  then  a  cheer  arose;  every  one  was  cheering 
and  laughing.  The  cashier  found  himself  idle.  He 
availed  himself  of  the  opportunity  to  wipe  his  fore- 
head with  his  handkerchief;  until  now  he  had  been 
compelled  to  shake  the  drops  away  to  prevent  them 
from  falling  on  the  cheques  or  the  leaves  of  his 
ledger. 

He  stood  idle,  looking  across  the  maghogany 
counter  in  amazement  at  the  people  who  were 
laughing  and  cheering  the  tradesmen,  poking  their 
thumbs  at  each  other's  ribs,  others  pressing  for- 
ward to  shake  hands  with  Mr.  Westwood.  The 
cashier,  being  happily  unaccustomed  to  panics, 


30  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 

looked  round  in  amazement.  How  was  it  possible 
that  the  people  could  be  so  ignorant  as  to  imagine 
that  the  stability  of  a  bank  which  has  only  a  small 
gold  reserve  to  meet  the  demands  of  a  run  upon  it, 
is  increased  by  the  fact  of  a  cheque  being  lodged  ? 

This  was  what  he  felt  inclined  to  ask,  Mr.  West- 
wood  could  see  without  difficulty,  when  he  glanced 
in  the  direction  of  Mr.  Calmour,  but  he  knew  some- 
thing of  men,  and  had  studied  the  phenomena  of 
panics.  He  would  not  have  minded  if  his  cashier 
had  protested  against  so  erroneous  a  view  of  the 
situation  being  taken  by  the  people  who  a  short 
time  before  had  been  clamouring  for  gold — gold 
— gold  in  exchange  for  their  cheques.  Mr.  West- 
wood  knew  that  his  cashier's  demonstration,  how- 
ever well  founded  it  might  be — however  consistent 
with  the  science  of  finance,  would  count  for  noth- 
ing in  the  estimation  of  these  people.  He  knew 
that  as  they  had  originally  been  moved  to  adopt 
the  very  foolish  course  which  had  so  very  nearly 
brought  ruin  to  him,  by  an  impulse  as  senseless  as 
that  which  compels  a  flock  of  sheep  to  leap  over  a 
precipice  simply  because  one  very  silly  animal  has 
led  the  way,  they  had,  on  equally  illogical  grounds, 
but  in  keeping  with  the  habits  of  the  sheep,  allowed 
themselves  to  be  moved  in  exactly  the  opposite 
direction  to  that  in  which  they  had  rushed  pre- 
viously. A  cheque!  If  the  crowd  had  been  suf- 
ficiently self-possessed  to  perceive  that  the  mere 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL )i 

lodging  of  a  cheque  in  the  bank  did  not  increase 
the  ability  of  the  bank  to  pay  them  the  balance  of 
their  accounts  in  gold,  they  would  certainly  have 
been  able  to  perceive  that,  to  join  in  a  run  upon  the 
bank,  simply  because  some  other  bank  a  hundred 
miles  away  had  closed  its  doors,  was  senseless. 

Richard  Westwood  knew  that  the  action  of  Agnes 
Mowbray  had  arrested  the  run  and  the  ruin.  He 
saw  that  already  some  of  the  men  who  had  cashed 
their  cheques,  but  who  had  not  had  time  to  reach 
the  doors,  were  relodging  the  cash  which  they  had 
received.  The  panic  that  now  threatened  to  take 
hold  upon  the  crowd  was  in  regard  to  the  security 
of  the  money  which  they  had  in  their  pockets. 
They  seemed  to  be  apprehensive  of  their  pockets 
being  picked,  of  their  houses  being  robbed.  Had 
not  several  ladies  been  clamouring  to  the  effect  that 
their  pockets  had  been  picked  ?  Had  not  Miss 
Mowbray  declared  that  she  could  not  consider  her 
money  secure  so  long  as  it  remained  unlodged  in  the 
bank  ? 

While  he  chatted  to  Miss  Mowbray  and  her 
brother  Cyril,  Richard  Westwood  could  see  that  his 
cashier  was  closing  and  locking  the  drawers  of  his 
desk;  the  busy  clerk  was  the  one  who  was  receiv- 
ing the  lodgments. 

He  laughed,  but  in  no  more  audible  tone  of  exul- 
tation than  had  been  his  an  hour  before,  when  he 
had  emptied  the  bag  of  sovereigns  into  the  till  and 


32  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 

had  lifted,  with  a  great  show  of  fatigue,  the  dummy 
bag  from  the  counter  to  the  drawer.  He  felt  that  he 
could  not  afford  to  give  himself  away  in  the  pres- 
ence of  the  mob.  He  knew  that  the  clutch  for  gold 
makes  a  mob  of  the  most  cultivated  people. 

"  How  good  of  you!  how  wise  of  you!  "  he  said 
to  Agnes  in  a  low  tone  when  the  crowd  had  drifted 
away  from  them  and  the  office  was  rapidly  empty- 
ing. "But  the  cheque — how  did  you  get  the 
cheque  ?  " 

"You  did  not  see  whose  signature  was  attached 
to  it  ?  "  said  Agnes. 

"I  only  saw  that  it  was  a  London  &  County 
cheque." 

"It  was  signed  by  Sir  Percival  Hope." 

"  I  do  not  quite  understand  how  you  could  have 
a  cheque  signed  by  Sir  Percival  Hope." 

"He  gave  it  to  me;  he  trusted  me  as  I  have 
trusted  you.  He  would  have  done  so  without  se- 
curity if  I  had  accepted  it  on  such  terms.  I  de- 
clined to  do  so,  however.  I  placed  in  his  hands 
security  that  would  satisfy  any  bank— even  so 
scrupulous  a  bank  as  Westwoods'.  I  handed  over 
to  him  all  my  shares  in  the  Water  Company." 

"They  are  worth  twenty-five  thousand  pounds  at 
least.  Great  heavens!  Agnes,  you  never  sold  them 
for  fifteen  thousand  pounds  ?" 

"Oh  no;  I  did  not  sell  them.  I  only  deposited 
them  as  security  with  Sir  Percival.  You  see  I  had 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 


not  long  to  make  up  my  mind  what  to  do.  Only 
an  hour  and  a  half  ago  I  heard  of  this  idiotic  run 
upon  the  bank.  Oh  no;  neither  Sir  Percival  nor  I 
had  much  margin  for  deliberation.  He  told  me  that 
unless  I  lodged  gold  with  you  it  would  be  no  use. 
He  laughed  at  the  idea  of  my  fancying  that  a 
cheque  would  be  as  useful  to  you  as  gold.  But  you 
see"  — 

"Yes,  I  see;  I  see.  And  I  believed  that  it  re- 
quired a  man  to  understand  men,  and  that  only  a 
clever  man  understood  what  was  meant  by  a  panic 
among  men  and  women.  I  was  a  fool.  For  the 
past  two  hours  I  have  been  trying  to  stem  the  flood 
of  that  panic  —  the  avalanche  of  that  panic.  I  have 
been  smiling  in  the  faces  of  those  fools;  they  were 
fools,  but  not  great  enough  fools  to  fail  to  see 
through  my  acting.  I  have  been  pretending  that 
dummy  money  bags  were  almost  too  heavy  for  me 
to  lift.  That  trick  only  got  rid  of  half-a-dozen 
men,  and  not  one  woman.  I  came  out  from  my 
room  munching  a  biscuit,  to  make  them  believe 
that  I  regarded  the  situation  as  an  everyday  one,  not 
worth  a  second  thought.  I  bluffed  —  abusing  the 
cashier  for  the  time  he  took  to  count  out  the  money, 
promising  to  pay  the  full  amount  of  all  the  cheques 
without  taking  time  to  calculate  if  they  were  correct 
to  the  penny.  It  was  all  a  game  of  bluff  to  make 
the  people  believe  that  the  bank  had  enough  gold  to 
pay  them  all  in  full.  But  I  failed  to  deceive  more 


34  WELL,  AFTER  ALL  — 

than  a  few,  though  I  played  my  part  well.  1  know 
that  I  played  it  well;  I  like  boasting  of  it.  But  I 
failed.  And  then  you  enter.  Ah,  my  dear,  I  am 
proud  of  you;  you  are  the  truest  woman  that  lives. 
You  deserve  a  better  fate  than  that  which  has  been 
yours." 

"I  am  content  to  wait,  my  dear  Dick.  I  have 
come  to  think  of  waiting  as  part  of  my  life.  Will 
it  be  all  my  life,  I  wonder  ?  " 

"No,  no;  that  would  be  impossible.  That  would 
be  too  cruel  even  for  Fate." 

Agnes  Mowbray  looked  at  him  for  a  few  mo- 
ments. He  saw  that  the  tears  came  into  her  eyes. 
Then  she  gave  an  exclamation  of  impatience,  say- 
ing: 

"Psha!  my  friend.  What  does  it  matter  in  the 
general  scheme  of  things  if  one  woman  dies  wait- 
ing to  marry  the  one  man  on  whom  she  has  set  her 
heart  ?  My  dear  Dick,  what  is  life  more  than  wait- 
ing— a  constant  waiting  that  is  never  repaid?  Is 
any  man,  any  woman,  ever  satisfied  ?  No  matter 
what  it  is  that  we  get,  do  we  not  resume  our  wait- 
ing for  something  else — something  that  we  think 
worth  waiting  for?  Psha!  I  am  beginning  to 
preach;  and  whatever  women  do  they  should  not 
preach.  Good-bye,  Dick.  Why,  we  are  almost 
left  alone." 

"My  poor  Agnes — my  poor  Agnes!"  said  he, 
looking  at  her  with  tenderness  in  his  eyes.  "  Never 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 35 

think  for  a  moment  that  he  will  not  return.  Eight 
years  is  a  long  time  for  him  to  be  lost,  but  he  will 
return.  Oh,  never  doubt  that  he  will  return." 

"I  have  never  yet  doubted  the  goodness  of 
God,"  said  she.  "1  will  wait.  I  will  accept  with- 
out a  murmur  my  life  of  waiting.  He  will  not 
mind  my  grey  hairs." 

She  gave  a  laugh— after  a  little  pause.  In  her 
laugh  there  was  a  curious  note  that  sounded  like 
a  defiance  of  Fate.  The  man  laughed  also,  but  she 
saw  that  he  knew  very  well  that  as  a  matter  of 
fact  there  were  several  grey  threads  among  the 
beautiful  brown  of  her  hair. 

That  was  all  the  conversation  they  had  at  that 
time.  She  went  away  with  her  brother  Cyril, 
who  had  been  trying  to  get  Mr.  Calmour  to  listen 
to  his  views  regarding  the  bowling  policy  to  be 
pursued  at  Saturday's  match.  Cyril  had  his  own 
views  regarding  the  slow  bowling  of  young  Sharp, 
the  rector's  son.  It  was  supposed  to  be  very  baf- 
fling, and  so  it  was  on  a  bad  wicket.  But  if  the 
wicket  was  good — and  there  was  every  likelihood 
that  the  fine  weather  would  last  over  Saturday — the 
batsmen  would  simply  send  every  ball  across  the 
boundary,  Cyril  declared  with  great  emphasis. 

He  was  in  some  measure  put  out  when  Mr. 
Calmour  turned  to  him  suddenly,  saying: 

"I  beg  your  pardon.  What  is  it  you've  been 
talking  about  ?  " 


36  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 

"What  should  I  be  talking  about  if  not  the 
bowling  for  Saturday  ?"  cried  Cyril. 

"Oh,  the  bowling.  What  bowling?  Saturday 
— what  is  to  happen  on  Saturday?"  said  the 
cashier. 

"  You  idiot!     Haven't  we  been  discussing  " — 

"Oh,  go  away — go  away,"  said  Mr.  Calmour 
wearily.  "Heaven  only  knows  what  may  happen 
between  to-day  and  Saturday.  If  you  could  have 
any  idea  of  what  I've  gone  through  to-day  already 
— bless  my  soul!  it  all  seems  like  a  queer  dream. 
Where  are  all  the  people  gone  ?  Why  have  they 
gone,  can  you  tell  me  ?  I  haven't  paid  away  all 
my  gold  yet.  I've  still  over  two  thousand  pounds 
left.  Have  they  closed  the  doors  of  the  bank  ? 
They  were  fools — oh,  such  fools!  But  I  could 
have  held  out.  I  had  three  or  four  tricks  left. 
And  now  what's  to  become  of  me  ?  I  support  my 
mother — she's  an  old  woman ;  and  I  have  a  sister  in 
another  town — she  is  an  epileptic.  We  are  all 
ruined  with  the  bank." 

The  cashier  put  his  hands  up  to  his  face  and 
burst  into  tears.  The  strain  of  the  previous  hour 
had  been  too  much  for  him.  It  was  in  vain  that 
Cyril  Mowbray  slapped  him  on  the  back  and  assured 
him  that  the  bank  was  safe  and  that  his  mother  and 
sister  might  reasonably  look  forward  to  a  brilliant 
future.  It  was  in  vain  that  Mr.  Westwood  shook 
him  by  the  hand,  promising  never  to  forget  the 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 


way  in  which  he  had  worked  through  the  crisis. 
Mr.  Calmour  refused  to  be  comforted.  He  con- 
tinued weeping,  and  had  to  be  conveyed  to  his 
home  in  a  fly. 

Richard  Westwood  had  begged  Cyril  to  drive 
to  Westwood  Court  and  dine  with  him;  and  now 
the  banker  was  sitting  in  his  bedroom,  staring  into 
the  empty  grate  as  he  recalled  the  incidents  of  the 
terrible  day  through  which  he  had  passed. 

The  boom  of  the  gong  which  came  half  an  hour 
later  aroused  him  from  his  reverie.  He  started 
up  with  a  great  sigh,  and  was  surprised  to  find 
himself  as  weary  as  if  he  had  had  a  twenty-mile 
ride.  He  went  to  a  looking-glass  and  examined 
his  face  narrowly.  It  looked  haggard.  He  re- 
membered having  heard  of  men's  hair  becoming 
grey  in  a  single  night.  He  quite  believed  such 
stories.  He  thought  it  strange  that  his  hair  should 
remain  black.  He  was  thirty-six  years  of  age  — 
four  years  older  than  Agnes,  and  he  had  noticed 
that  she  had  many  grey  hairs  —  she  had  talked  of 
them  when  they  had  stood  face  to  face  in  the  bank. 

He  wondered  if  waiting  for  an  absent  lover  was 
more  trying  than  being  the  senior  partner  in  a  bank 
during  a  severe  financial  crisis. 

He  went  downstairs  to  dinner  without  coming 
to  any  satisfactory  conclusion  on  this  rather  difficult 
question. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

WESTWOOD  COURT  had  been  in  the  possession  of 
the  family  of  bankers  since  the  days  of  George  II. 
It  had  been  built  by  that  Stephen  Westwood  whose 
portrait  was  painted  by  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds.  In 
the  picture  the  man's  right  hand  carries  a  scroll 
bearing  a  tracing  of  the  plans  of  the  house.  Before 
it  had  been  completed,  however,  Sir  Thomas  Cham- 
bers had  something  to  say  in  regard  to  the  design, 
the  result  being  sundry  additions  which  were  meant 
to  impart  to  the  plain  English  mansion  the  appear- 
ance of  the  villa  of  a  Roman  patrician. 

It  was  a  spacious  house  situated  in  the  midst  of 
one  of  the  loveliest  parks  in  Brackenshire — a  park 
containing  some  glorious  timber,  some  brilliant 
spaces  of  greensward,  and  a  trout  stream  that  was 
never  known  to  disappoint  an  angler,  however  ex- 
acting he  might  be.  It  was  scarcely  surprising  that 
love  for  this  home  was  the  most  prominent  of  the 
characteristics  of  the  Westwood  family.  Every 
member  of  the  family,  with  but  one  exception, 
seemed  to  have  inherited  this  trait.  The  one  ex- 
ception was  Claude  Westwood,  the  younger  brother 
of  Richard. 

During  his  father's  lifetime  he  had  been  in  a 
cavalry  regiment,  and  while  serving  in  India,  had 

38 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 50 

taken  part  in  a  rather  perilous  frontier  campaign 
against  a  strange  set  of  tribesmen  in  the  northwest. 
He  had  become  greatly  interested  in  the  opening  up 
of  the  conquered  territory,  and  as  soon  as  his  father 
died  he  had  left  the  regiment  and  had  done  some  re- 
markable exploration  work  on  his  own  account, 
both  in  the  northwest  of  India  and  in  the  border- 
land of  Persia. 

He  returned  to  England  to  recover  from  the  ef- 
fects of  a  snake-bite,  and  to  stay  for  a  month  or 
two  with  his  brother,  to  whom  he  was  deeply  at- 
tached. But  when  in  Brackenshire  he  had  formed 
another  attachment  which  threatened  to  interfere 
with  the  future  he  had  mapped  out  for  himself  as 
an  explorer.  He  did  not  notice  any  change  in  his 
brother's  demeanour  the  day  he  had  gone  to  him 
confiding  in  him  that  he  had  fallen  in  love  with 
Agnes  Mowbray,  the  beautiful  daughter  of  Admiral 
Mowbray,  who  had  bought  a  small  property  known 
as  The  Knoll,  a  mile  from  the  gates  of  the  Court. 
Richard  Westwood  had  found  it  necessary  for  the 
successful  carrying  on  of  the  banking  business, 
which  he  had  inherited,  to  keep  himself  always  well 
in  hand.  If  his  feelings  were  not  invariably  under 
control,  his  expression  of  those  feelings  certainly 
was  so;  and  this  was  how  it  came  that,  after  a 
pause  of  only  a  few  seconds,  he  was  able  to  offer 
his  brother  his  hand  and  to  say  in  a  voice  that  was 
neither  husky  nor  tremulous: 


40  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 

"  Dear  old  chap,  you  have  all  my  good  wishes." 

"I  knew  that  you  would  be  pleased,"  Claude  had 
said.  "  She  is  the  sort  of  girl  one  only  meets  once 
in  a  lifetime.  I  have  lived  for  a  good  many  years 
in  the  world  now,  and  yet  1  never  met  any  girl 
worthy  of  a  thought  alongside  Agnes.  How  on 
earth  you  have  remained  in  her  neighbourhood  for 
a  year  without  falling  in  love  with  her  yourself  is  a 
mystery  to  me." 

A  sudden  flash  came  to  Dick's  eyes,  and  he  was 
at  the  point  of  crying  out,  "Have  I  so  remained?" 
But  his  usual  habits  of  self-control  prevented  his 
showing  to  his  brother  what  was  in  his  heart.  He 
had  merely  given  a  laugh  as  he  said: 

"I  suppose  it  must  always  seem  mysterious  to  a 
man  in  love  that  every  one  else  in  the  world  does 
not  display  symptoms  of  the  same  malady." 

"  I  daresay  you  are  right,"  Claude  had  answered, 
after  a  pause.  "  Yes,  I  daresay — only — ah!— Agnes 
is  very  different  from  all  the  other  girls  in  the 
world." 

"You  recollect  Calverley's  lines: 

" « I  did  not  love  as  others  do  — 

None  ever  did  that  I've  heard  tell  of? 

Ah!  you  lovers  are  all  cast  in  the  same  mould.  But 
how  about  your  projected  exploration — you  can 
scarcely  expect  her  to  rough  it  with  you  at  the  upper 
reaches  of  the  Zambesi  ?  " 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL-  41 

Claude  Westwood  looked  grave.  For  some 
weeks  he  had  talked  about  nothing  else  except  the 
splendid  possibilities  of  the  Upper  Zambesi  to  ex- 
plorers; and  his  brother  had  offered  to  share  the  ex- 
penses of  an  expedition  thoroughly  well-equipped  to 
do  all  that  Livingstone  and  Baines  left  undone  in 
that  fascinating  quarter  of  Africa. 

"  Perhaps  she  will  refuse  me,"  said  Claude. 

"Ah!  perhaps;  but  if  she  does  not  refuse  you?" 

There  was  a  long  pause.  Claude  rose  from  his 
chair  and  walked  to  the  window.  He  looked  out  over 
the  sloping  lawns  and  the  terraced  Italian  garden; 
the  blue  swallows  were  skimming  the  surface  of  the 
huge  marble  basin  where  the  water-lilies  floated. 
He  seemed  greatly  interested  in  the  movements  of 
the  birds. 

At  last  he  turned  suddenly  round  to  his  brother, 
and  laid  his  hand  on  his  shoulder,  saying: 

"  Dick,  I  should  like  to  win  her.  I  should  like  to 
offer  her  a  name — the  name  of  a  man  who  has  done 
something  in  the  world.  Whatever  happens  I  am 
bound  to  make  the  expedition  to  the  Zambesi." 


Dick  Westwood  had,  while  sitting  before  the 
empty  grate,  recalled  all  the  incidents  of  eight  years 
before — he  recollected  how  a  level  ray  of  the  red 
sunlight  had  flickered  through  the  leaves  of  the  cop- 
per beech  and  made  rosy  his  brother's  face — he 


42  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 


could  still  feel  the  strong  clasp  of  his  hand  as  they 
had  separated  to  dress  for  the  dinner  which  Admiral 
Mowbray  was  giving  that  evening.  He  remem- 
bered how  Agnes  had  looked  at  the  head  of  the 
table — oh,  he  had  felt  even  then  that  she  was  not 
for  him,  but  for  his  brother — how  could  he  have 
fancied  for  a  moment  that  he  would  have  a  chance 
of  her  love  when  Claude  was  near  ? 

The  expression  on  Claude's  face  when  they  met 
to  go  home  together  told  him  all;  but  he  did  not 
need  to  be  told  anything.  He  knew  that  it  was  in- 
evitable. Agnes  had  accepted  Claude:  she  had  ac- 
cepted him  and  told  him  to  go  out  to  Africa;  she 
would  wait  for  him  to  return,  even  though  he 
might  not  return  for  ten  years,  she  had  said,  laugh- 
ingly. 

Alas !  alas !  the  lover  had  gone  at  the  head  of  his 
expedition  to  the  Zambesi,  and  for  seven  months 
news  had  come  from  him  at  irregular  intervals — for 
seven  months  only;  after  that — silence.  No  line 
came  from  him,  no  rumour  of  the  fate  of  the  expedi- 
tion had  reached  England,  though  at  the  end  of  the 
second  year  a  large  reward  had  been  offered  to  any 
one  who  could  throw  light  on  the  mystery. 

Eight  years  had  now  passed  since  the  expedition 
had  set  out  from  Zanzibar,  and  there  was  only  one 
person  alive  who  rejected  every  suggestion  that 
disaster  had  overtaken  Claude  Westwood  and  his 
companions.  It  had  become  an  article  of  faith 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 43 

with  Agnes  that  her  lover  would  return.  The  lapse 
of  years  seemed  to  strengthen  rather  than  to  attenu- 
ate her  hope.  Her  father  had  died  when  Claude 
had  been  absent  for  two  years,  and  almost  his  last 
words  to  her  had  been  of  hope. 

"  Fear  nothing  for  him;  he  will  return  to  you.  I 
know  what  manner  of  man  it  is  that  succeeds  in  the 
world,  and  Claude  Westwood  is  not  the  man  to 
fail.  I  shall  not  see  him,  but  you  will.  Whatever 
happens,  whatever  people  round  you  may  say, 
don't  relinquish  hope  for  him." 

Those  had  been  her  father's  words,  and  she  had 
obeyed  their  injunction.  She  had  not  given  up 
hope,  although  no  one  in  the  neighbourhood  ever 
thought  of  mentioning  the  name  of  Claude  West- 
wood  in  her  hearing.  It  seemed  that  the  very 
memory  of  the  man  had  died  out  in  Brackenhurst 
She  had  not  given  up  hope  although  now  and  again 
she  had  been  startled  to  see  a  grey  hair  where  a 
brown  one  had  been. 

And  for  eight  years  Richard  Westwood  had 
watched  her,  wondering  what  would  be  the  end  of 
her  devotion — what  would  be  the  end  of  his  own 
devotion.  People  in  the  neighbourhood  could  not 
understand  him.  They  took  the  trouble  every  now 
and  then  to  invent  a  theory  to  account  for  his  sin- 
gular rejection  of  the  delicate  hints  that  had  been 
thrown  out  to  him  by  mothers  of  many  daughters 
— hints  that  the  head  of  the  house  of  Westwood 


44  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 

had  certain  duties  in  life— social  duties— to  dis- 
charge. The  theories  were  more  or  less  ingenious; 
but  even  when  some  of  them  had  come  to  his  ears 
he  remained  as  obdurate  as  ever.  He  merely 
laughed,  and  the  man  who  laughs  is  well  known 
to  be  the  most  discouraging  of  men. 

But  Cyril  Mowbray  did  not  find  him  very  dis- 
couraging as  he  sat  with  him  on  this  evening  after 
dinner,  for  the  dinner  had  been  an  excellent  one 
and  his  cigars  were  unexceptional.  They  were  in 
their  easy-chairs  in  front  of  a  French  window,  the 
leaves  of  which  were  open.  The  square  of  the 
window  enclosed  as  in  a  frame  an  exquisite  picture 
of  the  dim  garden.  The  sound  of  cawing  rooks  in 
the  distant  elms  was  borne  through  the  tranquil  air. 
The  scents  of  the  earliest  roses  stole  within  the 
room  at  mysterious  intervals.  It  was  a  perfect 
summer's  night,  and  Cyril  felt  that  though  there 
were  troubles  in  the  world,  yet  on  the  whole  it  was 
a  very  pleasant  place  to  live  in. 

There  had  been  a  pause  in  the  conversation, 
which  had  related  mainly  to  a  very  pretty  young 
girl  named  Lizzie  Dangan,  the  daughter  of  the  head 
gamekeeper  at  Westwood  Court — the  man  who  had 
touched  his  hat  as  the  dog-cart  drove  through  the 
entrance  gates.  The  silence  was  suddenly  broken 
by  Cyril's  exclaiming: 

"  You  are  a  first-rate  chap,  Dick.  Why  shouldn't 
you  marry  Agnes  ?  " 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL—  45 

Dick's  eyes  flashed  upon  him  for  a  moment,  and 
it  seemed  to  Cyril  that  he  detected  a  certain  curious 
drawing  in  of  his  breath  that  sounded  like  the  sti- 
fling of  a  sigh.  The  exclamation  which  came  from 
him  immediately  afterwards  seemed  incongruous — 
it  was  an  exclamation  that  suggested  the  putting 
aside  of  an  absurdity. 

"Oh,  you  may  say  'psha!'  as  often  as  you 
please,"  said  Cyril;  "it  will  not  alter  the  fact  that 
Agnes  and  you  would  get  on  very  well  together.  I 
know  that  she  thinks  a  lot  of  you — so  do  I." 

"That's  very  kind  of  you,"  said  Dick.  "But 
you're  talking  nonsense — worse  than  nonsense. 
Agnes  has  given  her  promise  to  marry  my  brother 
Claude.  Let  us  say  no  more  about  it." 

"  It's  all  very  well  for  you  to  say,  'We'll  say  no 
more  about  it,'  "  cried  Cyril,  with  an  air  of  respon- 
sibility— the  responsibility  of  a  brother  who  refuses 
to  allow  the  affections  of  his  sister  to  be  trifled 
with.  "It's  all  very  well  for  you  to  say  that ;  but 
when  I  think  how  long  this  sorf  of  shilly-shallying 
has  been  going  on — well,  it  makes  me  wild.  Agnes 
is  now  over  thirty — think  of  that — over  thirty,  and 
what's  more,  she's  not  getting  any  younger.  I'm 
anxious  to  see  her  settled.  I  think  I've  a  right  to 
ask  if  she's  engaged  to  marry  Claude.  Where's 
Claude  now  ?  Does  any  sane  person  believe  that 
he  is  still  in  the  land  of  the  living?" 

"  Your  sister  believes  it,  and  she  is  sane  enough. 


46  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 


However,  I'm  not  going  to  discuss  the  question 
with  you,  my  friend;  or,  for  that  matter,  with 
anybody  else." 

"  That's  all  very  well;  the  fact  remains  the  same. 
Here's  a  fine  house  thrown  away  upon  a  bachelor, 
and  there's  Agnes,  who  would  suit  you  down  to 
the  ground,  waiting  " — 

"Waiting — waiting — that  is  exactly  her  posi- 
tion." 

"Waiting — yes;  but  for  what?  For  what,  I  ask 
you  as  a  man  of  the  world  ?  Your  brother  is  dead, 
beyond  a  shadow  of  a  doubt,  and  here  you  are 
alive  and  hearty.  Doesn't  it  say  something  in  the 
Bible  that  when  a  chap's  brother  dies  " — 

"Cyril,"  said  Dick  Westwood,  rising  with  an 
impatient  jesture,  "we'll  have  no  more  of  this. 
I  won't  allow  you  to  talk  any  longer  in  this  strain. 
Shall  we  finish  our  cigars  in  the  garden  ?" 

"All  right,"  said  Cyril,  rising.  But  before  they 
had  taken  a  step  toward  the  open  French  window, 
there  seemed  to  arise  from  the  earth  the  figure  of  a 
man,  and  he  stood  in  the  window  space  looking 
eagerly  at  each  of  them  in  turn. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  stranger  stood  with  his  back  to  whatever 
light  there  was  remaining  in  the  sky,  but  Dick 
Westwood  and  his  guest  could  see  what  manner 
of  man  he  was.  He  wore  a  short  beard  and  mous- 
tache. His  clothes  were  shabby,  and  so  was  his 
soft  hat.  He  might  have  been  a  foreman  of  me- 
chanics just  left  off  work. 

Westwood  stepped  to  the  wall  and  switched  on 
a  lamp.  Then  he  scrutinised  the  stranger  closely. 
The  man  had  entered  the  room  through  the  French 
window. 

"Who  are  you,  and  what  do  you  want,  my 
good  fellow?"  said  Westwood.  " It  is  customary 
for  visitors  to  pull  the  bell  at  the  hall  door." 

"I  pulled  the  bell.  They  told  me  you  were  at 
dinner  and  could  not  be  disturbed,  sir,"  replied  the 
man. 

No  one  who  heard  him  speak  could  think  of  him 
as  an  ordinary  mechanics'  foreman.  He  spoke  like 
a  person  of  some  culture. 

"  And  they  told  you  what  was  true,"  said  West- 
wood.  "Allow  me  to  say  that  it  is  most  unusual 
for  a  total  stranger  to  force  himself  into  a  house  in 
this  fashion.  I  must  ask  you  to  go  away  at  once 
unless  you  have  something  of  importance  to  com- 

47 


48  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 


municate  to  me;  unless — good  heavens!  is  it 
possible  that  you  come  with  some  news  of  my 
brother?" 

Dick  had  given  a  start  as  the  idea  seemed  to 
strike  him.  Cyril  also  started,  and  looked  at  the 
stranger  narrowly. 

"1  know  nothing  of  your  brother,  Mr.  West- 
wood,"  said  the  man.  "  But  I  know  you.  I  know 
that  it  was  into  your  hands  I  put  my  money  a  year 
ago,  and  I  have  come  to  you  for  it  now.  I  tried  to 
come  before  the  bank  closed,  but  I  missed  the 
connection  of  the  trains  at  the  junction.  I  live  in 
the  North  now.  I  want  my  money,  Mr.  West- 
wood." 

Mr.  Westwood  turned  upon  the  man. 

"You  should  know  well  enough  that  this  is  not 
the  time  or  the  place  to  come  about  any  matter  of 
banking  business,"  said  he.  "I  don't  remember 
ever  seeing  you  before,  but  even  if  I  did  remember 
you,  I  could  only  give  you  the  answer  I  have 
already  given.  I  shall  be  pleased  to  go  into  any 
business  question  at  the  bank.  I  decline  to  hold 
any  business  communication  with  you  at  this 
time  or  in  this  place.  I  have  had  business  enough 
and  to  spare  for  one  day.  I  must  ask  you  to  come 
to  the  bank  in  the  morning." 

"I've  no  notion  of  being  put  off  in  that  way, 
Mr.  Westwood,"  said  the  man.  "How  am  I  to 
know  that  your  bank  will  open  to-morrow  or  any 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL-  49 

other  day  ?  I  got  a  telegram  at  noon  telling  me 
that  Westwoods'  would  be  the  next  of  the  county 
banks  to  go  to  the  wall,  and  I  hurried  up  from 
Midleigh,  where  I  am  employed,  hoping  to  be  in 
time  to  pluck  my  savings  out  of  the  ruin;  but,  as 
I  told  you,  I  missed  the  train  connection.  But  here 
I  am  and  here" — 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  hear  anything  further  about 
you  or  your  business  at  this  time,  my  good  sir," 
said  Richard.  "I  have  been  courteous  to  you  up 
to  the  present.  I  must  now  insist  on  your  retiring. 
It  would  be  insufferable  if  a  man  in  my  position 
had  to  be  badgered  on  business  matters  at  any  hour 
of  the  day  and  night.  Come,  sir." 

He  had  gone  to  the  side  of  the  window  and 
made  a  motion  with  his  hand  in  the  direction  of 
the  garden. 

"Look  here,  Mr.  Westwood,"  said  the  man, 
"you  know  me  well  enough.  My  name  is  Carton 
Standish,  and  I  lodged  with  you  just  a  year  ago 
the  six  hundred  pounds  which  I  had  saved  for  my 
wife  and  child.  You  know  that  I  speak  the  truth. 
Psha!  What's  the  use  of  going  over  the  matter 
again  ?" 

"That's  what  I  ask  too;  so  I  insist" — 

"  It's  not  for  you  but  for  me  to  insist,"  broke 
in  the  man.  "It's  for  me  to  insist,  and  I  do  insist. 
Come,  sir,  hand  over  that  money  of  mine  without 
the  delay  of  another  minute.  It's  my  money,  not 


50  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 


yours,  and  I  decline  to  be  swindled  out  of  it  by  you 
or  any  other  cheat  of  a  bankrupt." 

"You  have  mistaken  your  man,"  said  Richard 
Westwood  quietly.  "Stay  where  you  are,  Cyril." 
Cyril  had  taken  an  angry  step  toward  the  stranger. 
"Stay  where  you  are;  I  think  I  am  equal  to  dealing 
with  this  gentleman  alone.  Come  now,  Mr.  Stand- 
ish,  if  that  is  your  name,  the  last  word  has  passed 
between  us;  if  you  don't  clear  out  of  my  house  in- 
side a  minute  I  shall  be  forced  to  throw  you  out." 

"You  infernal  swindler!"  shouted  the  man. 
"This  is  your  last  chance — this  is  my  last  chance. 
Hand  me  over  my  money  or  I'll  kill  you! " 

He  had  drawn  a  revolver  and  covered  Dick  West- 
wood  with  it  in  a  second.  At  the  same  instant  the 
door  of  the  room  opened  and  a  footman  appeared. 

Cyril  had  sprung  toward  the  man,  but  Dick  West- 
wood  restrained  him  by  a  gesture,  and  then  turning 
to  the  servant,  said  quietly: 

"Bentley,  show  this  gentleman  out  by  the  hall 
door." 

The  man  had  lowered  his  revolver — it  had  only 
been  pointed  at  Westwood  for  a  moment.  He 
looked  at  the  weapon  strangely,  then  with  an  ex- 
clamation he  tossed  it  out  of  the  open  window.  It 
fell  with  a  soft  thud  on  the  grass  border  of  the  ter- 
race, but  did  not  explode. 

The  footman  drew  a  long  breath.  He  did  not 
seem  to  relish  the  duty  of  showing  out  an  excited 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 51 

man  with  a  six-chambered  revolver  in  his  hand. 
He  felt  that  that  was  outside  the  usual  range  of  a 
footman's  duties.  He  went  to  the  door  and  stood 
beside  it  in  his  usual  attitude. 

"If  you  have  swindled  me,  you  need  not  think 
that  you  will  escape,"  said  the  visitor,  striding  across 
the  room  until  he  faced  Dick.  "  I  have  not  been  a 
good  husband,  or  perhaps  father,  at  times;  but  I 
was  making  amends  for  the  past.  I  had  saved  that 
money  for  my  wife  and  child,  and  now — now — if 
it's  lost,  I  swear  to  you  that  I'll  kill  you." 

"  You'll  not  do  it  to-night,  at  any  rate,"  said  Dick. 

"Are  you  so  sure?  Are  you  so  sure  of  that?" 
said  the  man  in  a  low  tone,  going  still  closer  to 
him,  his  hands  clenched  in  an  attitude  of  menace. 

Then  he  suddenly  wheeled  about,  and  walking  to 
the  door,  left  the  room  without  a  word.  His  steps 
died  away  up  the  hall,  followed  by  the  soft-treading 
servant.  The  sound  of  the  closing  of  the  hall  door 
reached  the  room  before  either  Westwood  or  Cyril 
spoke.  Then  it  was  the  former  who  said: 

"Is  it  possible  that  you  have  allowed  your  cigar 
to  go  out?  Oh,  you  young  chaps;  good  cigars  are 
thrown  away  upon  you!" 

He  was  smoking  his  own  cigar  quite  collectedly. 
Cyril  gave  a  laugh.  He  did  not  feel  quite  so  much 
a  man  of  the  world  as  he  had  felt  when  giving  his 
friend  the  benefit  of  his  advice  some  minutes  be- 
fore. 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 


"I  fancied  that  something  exciting  was  about  to 
take  place  to  rouse  this  stagnant  neighbourhood," 
said  he.  "Like  you,  Dick,  I'm  interested  in  men. 
That  chap  looked  a  desperate  rascal.  Do  you  re- 
member anything  of  him  ?  Did  he  actually  lodge 
money  with  you  a  year  ago  ?  " 

"Yes;  what  he  said  was  quite  true,"  replied 
Westwood.  "I  can't  for  the  life  of  me  recollect 
who  recommended  him  to  the  bank,  but  I'm  nearly 
sure  that  he  opened  an  account  with  us.  I  felt  that 
his  arriving  here  to-night  was  a  sort  of  last  straw  so 
far  as  I  am  concerned.  Good  heavens!  haven't  I 
gone  through  enough  to-day  to  last  me  for  some 
time,  without  being  badgered  by  a  fellow  like  that 
— a  fellow  whose  ideas  of  diplomacy  are  shown  by 
his  calling  one  a  swindler — a  cheat!  That  was  the 
best  way  he  could  set  about  coaxing  a  man  like  me 
to  do  him  a  favour." 

"Is  he  a  dangerous  man,  do  you  think?  There 
was  a  look  in  his  eye  that  I  did  not  like,"  said 
Cyril. 

"  A  man  is  not  dangerous  because  of  a  look  in  his 
eye,  but  rather  because  of  a  revolver  in  his  hand ; 
and  you  saw  that  that  poor  fool  was  more  afraid  of 
it  than  1  was,"  said  Westwood.  "Oh,  he's  a  poor 
sort  of  fellow  after  all.  No  man  shows  up  worse 
than  one  who  tries  to  be  threatening  in  a  heroic 
way.  He  sinks  into  the  mountebank  in  a  moment. 
He'll  be  all  right  in  the  morning  when  he  handles 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 53 

his  money — assuming  that  he  will  draw  out  his  bal- 
ance, which  is  doubtful.  Most  likely  he  will  have 
recovered  from  his  panic,  and  will  apologize.  Take 
another  cigar,  and  don't  spoil  this  one  by  letting  it 
go  out." 

Cyril  helped  himself  from  the  box,  and  imme- 
diately afterwards  the  footman  entered  with  a  tray 
with  decanters.  Cyril  took  a  whisky  and  Apolli- 
naris,  and  Dick  helped  himself  to  brandy. 

"  The  first  spirituous  thing  I  have  handled  to-day," 
he  said  with  a  laugh.  "And  yet  before  I  left  the 
bank  I  could  hear  my  clerks  inquiring  anxiously  for 
brandy." 

"What  nerves  you  have!  "said  Cyril.  "I  sup- 
pose they  run  in  your  family.  Poor  Claude  must 
have  had  something  good  in  that  line." 

"  Yes,"  said  Dick,  "  he  has  good  nerves." 

Cyril  noticed  that  he  declined  to  accept  the  past 
tense  in  regard  to  Claude. 

"Do  you  mind  testing  mine  by  playing  a  game 
of  billiards  ?"  asked  the  younger  man. 

"I  should  like  a  game  above  all  things — but  only 
one.  I  must  be  early  at  the  bank  in  the  morning,  if 
only  to  receive  our  friend  Standish's  apology. 
Come  along." 

They  went  off  together  to  the  billiard-room, 
which  was  built  out  at  the  back  of  the  dining-room ; 
and  they  had  their  game,  finishing  with  the  scores 
so  close  together  that  Westwood,  who,  when  Cyril 


54  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 

was  ninety-seven  and  he  only  eighty,  ran  out  with 
a  break  of  twenty,  declared  that  he  had  felt  more 
excited  by  the  game  than  he  had  at  any  time  of  the 
day — and  he  confessed  that  he  had  found  it  a  rather 
exciting  day  on  the  whole. 

It  was  past  eleven  when  Cyril  set  out  for  home, 
and  the  night  being  one  of  starlight  and  sweet  per- 
fumes, Dick  said  he  would  stroll  part  of  the  way 
with  him  and  finish  his  cigar.  They  went  along 
together  through  the  shrubbery  and  across  one  of 
the  little  subsidiary  tracks  that  led  from  the  broad 
avenue  to  a  small  door  made  in  the  park  wall,  half  a 
mile  nearer  The  Knoll  than  the  ordinary  entrance 
gates.  Cyril  unlocked  the  door,  for  the  year  before 
Dick  had  given  him  a  private  key  for  himself  and 
Agnes  in  order  that  they  might  be  saved  the  walk 
round  to  the  entrance  gates  when  they  were  visit- 
ing the  Court.  For  a  few  minutes  the  two  men 
stood  chatting  on  the  road,  before  they  said  good- 
night, and  while  the  one  went  on  in  the  direction  of 
The  Knoll,  the  other  returned  to  the  park,  pulling-to 
the  door,  which  had  a  spring  lock. 

The  night  was  wonderfully  still.  The  barking  of 
a  dog  at  King's  Elms  Farm,  nearly  a  mile  away,  was 
heard  quite  clearly  by  Richard  Westwood,  and  now 
and  again  came  the  sharp  sound  of  a  shot  from  the 
warren  on  Sir  Percival  Hope's  estate,  suggesting 
that  a  party  were  shooting  rabbits  in  the  most 
sportsmanlike  way,  the  chances  being,  on  such  a 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 55 

night,  largely  in  favour  of  the  rabbits.  After  every 
shot  one  of  the  peacocks  that  paraded  the  grassy 
terraces  of  the  Court  by  day,  and  roosted  in  the 
trees  by  night,  sent  out  a  protesting  shriek. 

All  the  nocturnal  creatures  of  the  woodland  were 
awake,  Dick  knew.  As  he  paused  for  a  few  mo- 
ments on  the  track  he  could  hear  the  stealthy  move- 
ment of  a  rat  or  a  weazel  among  the  undergrowth, 
the  flicker  of  the  wings  of  a  bat  across  the  starlight, 
the  rustle  of  a  blackbird  among  the  thick  foliage. 
He  had  always  liked  to  walk  about  the  park  at 
night,  observing  and  listening,  and  the  result  was 
that  none  of  his  gamekeepers  had  anything  like  the 
knowledge  which  he  possessed  of  the  woodland  and 
its  inhabitants. 

When  he  reached  the  house  and  had  let  himself 
in  with  his  latchkey,  he  went  to  the  drawing-room 
where  he  had  sat  with  Cyril  after  dinner.  He  threw 
himself  back  in  his  easy-chair,  and  he  seemed  to 
hear  once  again  the  voice  of  Cyril  asking  him  that 
question: 

"  Why  shouldn't  you  marry  Agnes  ?" 

He  asked  himself  that  question  as  he  sat  there 
now.  He  had  put  it  to  himself  often  during  the  past 
two  years.  Was  there  any  treason  toward  his 
brother  in  the  fact  that  that  question  had  come  to 
him,  he  wondered.  Could  any  one  fancy  that  his 
brother  was  still  alive  ?  Could  any  one  believe  that 
the  insatiate  maw  of  tropical  Africa,  which  has 


56  WELL,  AFTER  ALL- 


swallowed  up  so  many  brave  Englishmen,  would 
disgorge  any  one  of  its  victims  ? 

He  might  still  pretend  that  he  believed  that  Claude 
was  still  alive,  but  in  his  heart  he  could  not  feel  any 
hope  that  he  should  return.  He  wondered  if  Agnes 
had  really  any  hope — if  she  too  were  trying  to  de- 
ceive herself  on  this  matter — if  she  were  not  trying 
by  constant  references  to  his  return  to  make  herself 
believe  that  he  would  return. 

Had  Fate  ever  dealt  so  cruelly  with  two  people 
as  it  had  with  himself  and  Agnes?  He  believed 
that  if  any  direct  evidence  had  been  forthcoming  of 
Claude's  death,  Agnes  might,  in  course  of  time,  have 
listened  to  him,  and  have  believed  him  when  he 
told  her  that  he  loved  her — that  he  had  loved  her  for 
years — long  before  Claude  had  come  to  tell  her  that 
he  loved  her.  Even  now.  ...  He  wondered 
if  he  were  to  go  to  her  and  ask  her  for  his  sake  to 
leave  the  world  of  delusion  in  which  she  was  con- 
tent to  live — the  atmosphere  of  self-deception  which 
she  was  content  to  breathe  and  to  call  it  life  when 
she  knew  it  was  nothing  more  than  a  living  death — 
would  she  listen  to  him  ? 

He  sat  there  thinking  his  thoughts  until  the  sound 
of  the  church  clock  striking  the  hour  of  midnight 
came  to  him  through  the  still  air. 

He  rose  with  a  long  sigh — the  sigh  of  a  lover  who 
hopes  that  hope  may  come  to  him  before  it  is  too 
late  to  dissipate  despair,  and  he  was  about  to 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL-  57 

switch  off  the  light,  when  he  was  startled  by  the 
sound  of  a  footstep  on  the  gravel  of  the  walk  be- 
tween the  grass  of  the  terrace  and  the  French 
window.  The  sound  was  not  that  of  a  person 
walking  on  the  path,  but  of  one  stepping  stealthily 
from  the  grass. 

In  another  moment  there  came  a  tapping  on  the 
window — light,  but  quite  distinct. 

He  switched  off  the  light  in  an  instant,  and 
stepped  quickly  to  one  side,  for  he  had  no  wish  to 
reveal  his  whereabouts  to  whatever  mysterious 
visitor  might  be  watching  outside.  He  slipped 
across  the  room  to  the  switch  of  a  tall  pillar  lamp 
standing  close  to  the  window,  and  when  the  tap- 
ping was  repeated,  he  turned  on  the  light,  and 
looked  from  behind  a  screen  through  the  window. 

He  quite  expected  to  see  there  the  man  who  an 
hour  and  a  half  before  had  threatened  him,  and  he 
was,  therefore,  greatly  surprised  when  he  saw  the 
figure  of  a  girl  peering  into  the  room.  He  hastened 
to  the  window  and  opened  it. 

"Good  heavens,  child,  what  has  brought  you 
here  at  such  an  hour?"  he  said.  "Lizzie,  I'm 
ashamed  of  you;  it  is  past  midnight." 

"  Every  one  is  ashamed  of  me,  sir,"  said  the  girl; 
she  was  a  very  pretty  girl  of  not  more  than  twenty. 
She  was  a  good  deal  paler  and  her  features  had 
much  more  refinement  than  the  face  of  an  ordinary 
country  girl. 


58  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 


She  stepped  through  the  window  as  she  spoke. 
He  knew  that  she  did  so  quite  innocently — she 
would  not  keep  him  standing  at  the  open  window. 

"You  have  made  a  little  fool  of  yourself,  Lizzie," 
he  said;  "and  I  fear  that  you  have  not  learned 
wisdom  yet,  or  you  would  not  have  come  here  at 
such  an  hour.  What  have  you  got  to  say  to  me  ? 
Let  us  go  outside.  We  can  talk  better  outside. 
But  I  hope  you  haven't  got  much  to  say  to  me.  I 
have  to  get  up  early  in  the  morning." 

She  stepped  outside,  and  he  followed  her.  They 
walked  half-way  round  the  house  until  they  came 
to  the  rosery,  which  was  at  the  side  opposite  to 
that  where  the  servants'  rooms  were  situated. 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  fall  into  worse  trouble,  my 
dear,"  said  he.  "Now  tell  me  all  that  you  think  I 
should  be  told." 

"  I  knew  that  I  had  no  chance  of  speaking  to  you 
in  an  ordinary  way,  sir,"  said  the  girl,  "so  I  slipped 
out  of  Mrs.  Morgan's  cottage  and  came  here." 

"That  was  very  foolish  of  you.  Well,  what 
have  you  to  say  to  me?" 

"You  know  my  secret,  sir.  Cyril — I  mean  Mr. 
Mowbray,  told  me  that  you  knew  it;  but  no  one  else 
does — not  even  my  father — not  even  Miss  Mowbray 
— and  I'd  die  sooner  than  tell  it  to  any  one." 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  know.  To  say  you  were  both  fool- 
ish would  be  to  say  the  very  least  of  the  matter. 
But  you  at  any  rate  have  been  punished." 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 59 

"God  knows  I  have,  Mr.  Westwood." 

"Yes,  it  is  always  the  woman  who  has  to  bear 
the  punishment  for  this  sin.  I  wish  I  could  lighten 
yours,  my  poor  child." 

"You  can,  sir,  you  can!"  The  girl  had  begun 
to  sob,  and  she  could  not  speak  for  some  time. 
He  waited  patiently.  "  I  have  come  to  talk  to  you 
about  that,  sir,"  she  continued,  when  she  was  able 
to  speak  once  more.  "Sir  Percival  Hope's  sister 
has  promised  to  give  me  a  chance,  Mr.  Westwood; 
but  only  if  I  agree  never  to  see  him  again." 

"And,  of  course,  you  agreed.  You  are  very 
fortunate,  my  girl." 

"Yes,  sir,  I  agreed;  but — oh,  Mr.  Westwood,  he 
has  promised  to  marry  me  when  he  gets  his  money 
in  two  years,  and  I  know  that  he  will  do  it,  for  I'm 
sure  he  loves  me,  only — oh,  sir,  I'm  afraid  that 
when  I'm  away,  where  we  may  never  see  each 
other,  he  may  be  led  to  think  different — he  may  be 
led  to  forget  me.  But  you,  Mr.  Westwood,  you 
will  be  on  my  side — you  will  not  let  him  forget  me. 
That  is  what  I  come  to  implore  of  you,  sir:  you 
will  always  keep  me  before  him  so  that  he  may  not 
forget  that  he  is  to  marry  me  ?  " 

"Look  here,  Lizzie,"  said  he,  after  a  pause;  "if 
I  were  you  I  wouldn't  trust  to  his  keeping  his 
promise  to  you.  But  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do.  I 
have  been  talking  to  Cyril,  and  he  knows  what  my 
opinion  of  his  conduct  is.  He  has  told  me  that  he 


60  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 


would  marry  you  to-morrow  if  he  only  had  enough 
money  to  live  on.  I  advised  him  to  confess  all  to 
Miss  Mowbray,  and  if  he  does  so  I  have  made  up 
my  mind  to  send  him  off  to  a  colony  with  you, 
making  a  provision  for  your  future  until  he  gets  his 
money." 

"Oh,  sir — oh,  Mr.  Westwood!"  cried  the  girl, 
catching  up  his  hand  and  kissing  it.  "  Oh,  sir,  you 
have  saved  me  from  ruin." 

"1  hope  that  I  have  saved  both  of  you,"  said  he. 
"Now,  get  back  to  Mrs.  Morgan's  without  delay. 
I  hope  that  it  may  not  be  discovered  that  you  were 
wandering  through  the  park  at  midnight.  M^hy, 
even  if  Cyril  discovered  it  he  might  turn  away  from 
you." 

After  a  course  of  sobs  mingled  with  thanks,  the 
girl  went  away,  and  Richard  Westwood  strolled 
back  toward  the  house. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

IT  was  rather  early  on  the  next  morning  when 
Agnes  Mowbray  was  visited  by  Sir  Percival  Hope. 
Cyril,  who  had  returned  home  late  on  the  previous 
night,  and  had  not  gone  to  bed  for  nearly  an  hour 
after  entering  the  house,  was  not  yet  downstairs; 
but  his  sister  was  in  her  garden  when  her  visitor  ar- 
rived. 

Sir  Percival  Hope  was  one  of  the  latest  comers  to 
the  county.  He  was  the  younger  son  of  a  good 
family — the  baronetcy  was  one  of  the  oldest  in 
England — and  had  gone  out  to  Australia  very  early 
in  life.  In  one  of  the  southern  colonies  he  had  not 
only  made  a  fortune,  but  had  won  great  distinction 
and  had  been  twice  premier  before  he  had  reached 
the  age  which  in  England  is  considered  young 
enough  for  entering  political  life.  On  the  death  of 
his  father — his  elder  brother  had  been  killed  when 
serving  with  his  regiment  in  the  Soudan  campaign 
of  1883 — he  had  come  to  England,  not  to  inherit 
any  estate,  for  the  last  acre  of  the  family  property 
had  been  sold  before  his  birth,  but  to  purchase  the 
estate  of  Branksome  Abbey  in  Brackenshire,  which 
had  once  been  in  his  mother's  family.  He  was  now 
close  upon  forty  years  of  age,  and  it  was  said  that 
he  was  engaged  in  the  somewhat  arduous  work  of 

61 


62  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 


nursing  the  constituency  of  South  Brackenshire. 
There  were  few  people  in  the  neighbourhood  who 
were  disposed  to  think  that  when  the  chance  came 
for  him  to  declare  himself  he  would  be  rejected.  It 
was  generally  allowed  that  he  might  choose  his 
constituency. 

He  was  a  tall  and  athletic  man,  with  the  bronzed 
face  of  a  southern  colonist,  and  with  light-brown 
hair  that  had  no  suggestion  of  grey  about  it.  As 
he  stood  on  the  lawn  at  The  Knoll  by  the  side  of 
Agnes,  and  in  the  shade  of  one  of  the  great  elms, 
no  one  would  have  believed  that  he  was  over 
thirty. 

"I  got  your  letter,"  said  Agnes  when  she  had 
greeted  him  with  cordiality,  for  though  they  had 
known  each  other  only  a  year  they  had  become  the 
warmest  friends.  "  I  got  your  letter  an  hour  ago 
—just  when  you  must  have  got  mine,  which  I 
wrote  last  night.  I  hope  you  are  able  to  give  me  as 
good  news  as  I  gave  you." 

"You  were  able  to  tell  me  of  the  saving  of  the 
bank;  I  hope  I  can  tell  you  of  the  saving  of  a  soul," 
said  Sir  Percival. 

"1  hoped  as  much,"  she  cried,  her  face  lighting 
up  as  she  turned  her  eyes  upon  his.  "  Your  sister 
must  be  a  good  woman — as  good  a  woman  as  you 
are  a  man." 

"  If  you  had  waited  for  half  an  hour  when  you 
came  to  see  me  yesterday,  I  could  have  told  you 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 


what  I  come  to  tell  you  now,"  said  he.  "  But  you 
were  in  too  great  a  hurry." 

"I  had  need  to  make  haste,"  laughed  Agnes. 
"Every  moment  was  worth  hundreds  of  pounds  — 
perhaps  thousands." 

"  And  the  good  people  were  perfectly  satisfied 
with  my  cheque  ?  Well,  they  are  a  good  deal  more 
confiding  than  the  colonists  to  whom  I  was  accus- 
tomed in  my  young  days:  they  would  have  laughed 
at  the  notion  of  offering  them  a  cheque  when  they 
looked  for  gold,  although  in  the  bush  cheques  are 
current.  Oh  no;  when  they  make  a  run  on  a  bank 
nothing  but  gold  can  satisfy  them." 

"I  knew  what  I  could  do  with  those  people 
yesterday.  They  only  needed  some  one  to  arrest 
their  panic  for  a  moment,  and  then  like  sheep  they 
were  ready  to  go  off  in  the  opposite  direction." 

"And  you  saved  the  bank?" 

"No,  not  1.  You  saved  it:  the  cheque  was  yours. 
And  now  it  is  through  you  that  that  poor  girl  is  to 
be  saved.  How  good  you  are.  What  should  we 
do  without  you  in  this  neighbourhood?" 

"The  neighbourhood  did  without  me  for  a  good 
many  years.  Never  mind.  I  have  come  to  tell  you 
that  my  sister  will  be  glad  to  take  your  young 
protegee  under  her  roof  and  to  give  her  a  chance  of 
—  well,  may  I  say,  redeeming  the  past  ?  You  are 
not  one  of  the  women  who  think  that  for  one  sin 
there  is  no  redemption.  Neither  is  my  sister.  She 


64  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 


is,  like  you,  a  good  woman — not  given  to  preaching 
or  moralising  in  the  stereotyped  way,  but  ever 
ready  to  lend  a  helping  hand  to  a  sister,  not  to  push 
her  back  into  the  mire." 

"After  all,  that  is  the  most  elementary  Christian- 
ity. Was  there  any  precept  so  urged  by  the 
Founder  as  that  ?  Christianity  is  assuredly  the  re- 
ligion for  women." 

"  It  is  the  only  religion  for  women — and  men. 
My  sister  will  treat  the  girl  as  though  she  knew 
nothing  of  her  lapse.  There  will  be  no  lowering  of 
the  corners  of  her  mouth  when  she  receives  her. 
She  will  never,  by  word  or  action,  suggest  that  she 
has  got  that  lapse  forever  in  her  mind.  The  poor 
girl  will  never  receive  a  reproach.  In  short,  she 
will  be  given  a  real  chance;  not  a  nominal  one;  not 
a  fictitious  one;  not  a  parochial  one." 

"That  will  mean  the  saving  of  her  soul.  Her 
father  has  behaved  cruelly  toward  her.  He  turned 
her  out  of  his  house,  as  you  know,  because  she 
refused  to  say  what  was  the  name  of  her  be- 
trayer." 

"You  mentioned  that  to  me.  All  the  people  in 
the  neighbourhood  seem  to  be  most  indignant  with 
the  poor  girl  because  of  her  silence  on  this  point. 
They  seem  to  feel  that  their  curiosity  is  outraged. 
They  do  not  appear  to  be  grateful  to  her  for  having 
stimulated  their  imagination.  And  yet  I  think  it 
was  hearing  of  this  attitude  of  the  girl  that  caused 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 65 

my  sister  to  be  attracted  to  her.  That's  all  I  have  to 
say  on  this  painful  matter,  my  dear  friend." 

Agnes  Mowbray  gave  him  her  hand.  Her  eyes 
were  misty  as  she  turned  them  upon  his  face. 
Several  moments  had  passed  before  she  was  able  to 
speak,  and  then  her  voice  was  tremulous.  A  sob 
was  in  her  throat. 

"You  are  so  good — so  good — so  good!"  she 
said. 

He  held  her  hand  for  a  minute.  He  seemed  to  be 
at  the  point  of  speaking  as  he  looked  earnestly  into 
her  face,  but  when  he  dropped  her  hand  he  turned 
away  from  her  without  saying  a  word. 

There  was  a  long  silence  before  he  said: 

"We  have  been  very  good  friends,  you  and  I, 
since  I  came  back  to  England." 

His  words  were  almost  startling  in  their  diver- 
gence from  the  subject  upon  which  they  had  been 
conversing.  The  expression  on  Agnes's  face  sug- 
gested that  she  was  at  least  puzzled  if  not  abso- 
lutely startled  by  his  digression. 

"Yes,"  she  said  mechanically,  "we  have  indeed 
been  good  friends.  I  knew  in  an  instant  yesterday 
that  it  was  to  you  I  should  go  when  I  was  in  great 
need.  I  knew  that  you  would  help  me." 

He  looked  at  her  gravely  and  in  silence  for  some 
moments.  Then  he  suddenly  put  out  his  hand  to 
her. 

"Good-bye,"  he  said  quickly — unnaturally;  and 


66 

before  their  hands  had  more  than  met  for  the  sec- 
ond time  he  turned  and  walked  rapidly  away  to  the 
gate,  leaving  her  standing  under  the  shady  elm  in 
the  centre  of  the  lawn. 

For  a  moment  or  two  she  was  too  much  sur- 
prised to  be  able  to  make  any  move.  He  had  never 
behaved  so  curiously  before.  She  was  trying  to 
think  what  she  had  said  or  what  she  had  sug- 
gested that  had  hurt  his  feelings,  for  it  seemed  to 
her  that  his  sudden  departure  might  be  taken  to  in- 
dicate that  she  had  said  something  that  jarred  upon 
him. 

She  hastened  across  the  lawn  and  through  the 
tennis-ground,  to  intercept  him  on  the  road.  Only 
a  low  privet  hedge  stood  between  the  road  and  the 
gardens  of  The  Knoll,  and  she  reached  this  hedge 
and  looked  over  it  before  he  had  passed.  She  saw 
him  approaching;  his  eyes  were  upon  the  ground. 

It  was  his  turn  to  be  startled  as  she  spoke  his 
name,  looking  over  the  hedge.  He  looked  up 
quickly. 

"Did  I  say  anything  that  I  should  not  have  said 
just  now?"  she  asked.  "Why  did  you  hurry 
away  before  our  hands  had  more  than  met  ?  " 

"Shall  I  come  back?"  he  said,  after  looking  into 
her  eyes  with  a  curious  expression  in  his.  "Will 
you  ask  me  to  return  ?  " 

"I  will — 1  will — I  will,"  she  cried.  "  Please  re- 
turn and  tell  me  if  I  said  anything  that  hurt  you.  I 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL-  67 

would  not  do  so  for  the  world.  Nothing  but  grati- 
tude and  good  feeling  for  you  was  in  my  heart. 
Oh  yes,  pray  return." 

"  If  I  were  wise  I  should  not  have  returned  when 
you  made  use  of  that  word  'gratitude,'"  said  he 
when  he  had  come  beside  her,  through  the  small 
rustic  gate  which  she  opened  for  him  from  the  in- 
side. "Gratitude  is  the  opposite  to  love,  and  I  love 
you." 

With  a  startled  cry  she  took  a  step  or  two  back 
from  him,  and  held  up  her  hands  as  if  instinctively 
to  avert  a  blow. 

"I  have  startled  you,"  he  said.  "I  was  rude; 
but  indeed  I  do  not  know  of  any  way  of  saying 
that  I  love  you  except  in  those  words.  I  have  had 
no  experience  either  in  loving  or  in  confessing  my 
love.  I  came  here  this  morning  to  say  those  words 
to  you,  but  when  I  looked  at  you  standing  beside 
me  under  the  elm — when  I  saw  how  beautiful  you 
were — how  full  of  God's  grace,  and  goodness,  and 
tenderness,  and  charity,  I  was  so  overcome  with 
the  thought  of  my  own  unworthiness  to  love  such 
a  one  as  you,  that  " — 

"Oh  no,  no;  for  God's  sake,  do  not  say  that — do 
not  say  that,"  she  cried,  holding  out  her  hands  to 
him  in  an  appealing  attitude.  "Alas!  alas!  that 
word  love  must  never  pass  between  us." 

"  Why  should  not  the  word  pass,  when  my  heart 
and  soul " — 


68  WELL,  AFTER  ALL • 

"Ah,  let  me  implore  of  you.  I  fancied  that  you 
knew  all — all  my  story.  I  forgot  that  it  happened 
so  long  ago  that  people  in  this  neighbourhood  had 
ceased  to  speak  of  it  years  before  you  came  here." 

"  Your  story  ?  I  will  believe  nothing  but  what  is 
good  of  you." 

"My  story — my  life's  story  is  that  I  have  prom- 
ised to  love  another  man." 

He  gave  a  gasp.  His  head  fell  forward  for  a 
moment.  Then  he  clasped  his  hands  behind  him 
and  looked  at  her  in  all  tenderness  and  without  a 
suggestion  of  reproach. 

"I  had  a  suspicion  of  it  yesterday,"  he  said. 
"The  man  who  is  more  fortunate  than  I  is  Richard 
Westwood." 

' '  No,  not  Richard  Westwood,  but  Claude  West- 
wood,"  she  replied,  in  a  low  tone,  and  with  her 
eyes  fixed  upon  the  ground. 

A  puzzled  look  was  on  his  face. 

"Claude  Westwood — Claude  Westwood?"  he 
said.  "But  there  is  no  Claude  Westwood.  Was 
not  Claude  Westwood  the  African  explorer  killed 
years  ago — it  must  be  nearly  ten  years  ago — when 
trying  to  reach  the  Upper  Zambesi  ?" 

"Claude  Westwood  is  the  man  to  whom  I  have 
given  my  promise,"  said  she  in  an  unshaken  voice 
— the  voice  of  one  whose  faith  remains  unshaken. 
"He  is  not  dead.  He  is  alive  and  our  love  lives. 
Ah,  my  dear  friend  " — she  put  out  both  her  hands 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 69 

frankly  to  Sir  Percival  and  he  took  them,  tenderly 
and  reverently — "my  dear  friend,  you  may  think 
me  a  fool;  you  may  think  that  I  am  wasting  my 
life  in  waiting  for  an  event  that  is  as  impossible  as 
the  bringing  of  the  dead  back  to  life;  but  God  has 
brought  the  dead  back  to  life,  and  I  trust  in  God  to 
bring  the  man  whom  I  love  back  to  my  love.  At 
any  rate,  whatever  you  may  think,  I  cannot  help 
myself;  it  is  my  life,  this  waiting,  though  it  is 
weary — weary." 

She  had  turned  away  from  him  and  was  looking 
with  wide,  wistful  eyes  across  the  long  sweep  of 
country  that  lay  between  the  road  and  the  Abbey 
woods. 

He  had  not  let  go  her  hands.  He  held  them  as  he 
said: 

"My  poor  Agnes!  my  poor  Agnes.  I  had  some 
hope — yes,  a  little — when  I  first  saw  you.  I  had 
never  thought  of  loving  a  woman  before,  but  then 
.  .  .  ah,  what  is  the  good  of  recalling  what  my 
thoughts  were — my  hopes  ?  I  am  strong  enough  to 
face  my  fate.  I  am  strong  enough  to  hope  with  all 
my  heart  that  happiness  may  come  to  you — that — 
that — he  may  come  to  you — the  man  who  is  blessed 
with  such  a  love  as  has  blessed  few  men.  You 
know  that  I  am  sincere,  Agnes?" 

"1  am  sure  of  it,"  she  said,  and  now  it  was  her 
hand  that  tightened  on  his.  "Ah,  my  dear,  dear 
friend,  I  know  how  good  you  are — how  true!  If  I 


70  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 

were  in  trouble  it  is  to  you  I  would  go  for  help, 
knowing  that  you  would  never  fail  me." 

"I  will  never  fail  you,"  he  said.  "There  is  a 
bond  between  us.  You  will  come  to  me  should 
you  ever  be  in  trouble." 

"  I  give  you  my  promise,"  she  said. 

Her  eyes  were  overflowing  with  tears  as  she  put 
her  face  up  to  his.  He  kissed  her  on  the  forehead 
very  gently,  and  without  speaking  a  good-bye 
turned  slowly  away  to  the  little  gate. 

While  he  was  in  the  act  of  unlocking  it,  he 
started,  hearing  a  cry  from  the  spot  where  they  had 
been  standing  a  dozen  yards  away. 

He  looked  round  quickly. 

Agnes  was  being  supported  by  a  servant.  He 
saw  that  her  face  was  deathly  white,  and  in  her 
hand  that  fell  limply  by  her  side  there  was  an  ob- 
long piece  of  paper.  A  telegraph  envelope  had 
fluttered  to  the  ground. 

He  rushed  back  to  her. 

"What  has  happened  ?"  he  asked  the  servant. 
^  "  A  telegram,  sir;  I  brought  it  out  to  her — it  had 
just  come,  and  I  knew  that  she  was  out  here.  She 
read  it  and  cried  out — I  was  just  in  time  to  catch 
her.  I  don't  think  she  has  quite  fainted,  Sir  Per- 
cival." 

The  maid  was  right.  Agnes  had  not  fainted,  but 
she  was  plainly  overcome  by  whatever  news  the 
telegram  had  conveyed  to  her. 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL—  71 

She  opened  her  eyes  as  Sir  Percival  put  his  arm 
about  her,  supporting  her  to  a  garden  chair  that 
stood  at  the  side  of  the  tennis  lawn. 

"I  think  I  can  walk,"  she  murmured;  and  she 
made  an  effort  to  step  out,  but  all  her  strength 
seemed  to  have  departed.  She  would  have  fallen  if 
Sir  Percival  had  not  supported  her. 

"You  are  weak,"  he  said;  "but  after  a  rest  you 
will  be  yourself  again.  Let  me  help  you." 

"  You  are  so  good!  "  she  said,  and  with  his  help 
she  was  able  to  take  a  few  steps.  But  then  she 
gave  a  sudden  gasp  and  became  rigid  when  she 
caught  sight  of  the  telegram  which  was  crumpled 
in  her  hand.  She  raised  it  slowly  and  stared  at  it. 
Then  she  cried  out: 

"Ah,  God  is  good — God  is  good !  It  is  no  dream. 
He  is  safe— safe!  Claude  Westwood  is  alive." 


CHAPTER  VII. 

WHAT  were  his  feelings  as  he  read  the  telegram 
which  she  thrust  into  his  hand — the  telegram  sent 
to  her  by  a  relative,  who  lived  in  London,  ac- 
quainting her  with  the  fact  that  an  enterprising 
London  paper  had  in  its  issue  of  that  morning  an- 
nounced the  safe  arrival  at  Uganda  of  the  distin- 
guished explorer,  Claude  West  wood?  "Authority 
unquestionable,"  were  the  words  with  which  the 
telegram  ended. 

Had  he  for  one  single  moment  an  unworthy 
thought  ?  Had  he  for  a  single  moment  a  conscious- 
ness that  she  was  lost  to  him  for  ever  ?  Had  he  a 
feeling  that  he  was  being  cruelly  treated  by  Fate  ? 
Or  was  every  feeling  overwhelmed  by  the  thought 
that  this  woman  whose  happiness  was  dear  to  him, 
was  on  her  way  to  happiness  ? 

She  was  leaning  upon  him  as  he  read  the  tele- 
gram; and  when  he  looked  into  her  face  he  saw 
that  the  expression  which  it  wore  was  not  that  of 
a  woman  who  is  thinking  of  her  own  happiness. 
He  saw  that  her  heart  was  not  so  full  of  her  own 
happiness  as  to  have  no  place  for  a  thought  for 
the  man  who  in  a  moment  had  all  hope  swept 
away  from  him.  Her  eyes  showed  him  that  she 
had  the  tenderest  regard  for  him  at  that  moment; 

72 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 73 

and  that  was  how  he  was  able  to  press  her  hand 
and  say: 

"With  all  my  heart — with  all  my  heart,  I  am 
glad.  You  will  be  happy.  I  ask  nothing  more." 

She  returned  the  pressure  of  his  hand,  and  with 
her  eyes  looking  into  his,  said  in  a  low  voice: 

"  I  know  it — I  know  it." 

As  he  helped  her  to  walk  up  to  the  house  she 
kept  putting  question  after  question  to  him.  Was 
the  news  that  this  paper  published  usually  of  a 
trustworthy  character?  She  had  heard  that  some 
newspapers  with  a  reputation  for  enterprise  to 
maintain,  were  usually  more  anxious  to  maintain 
such  a  reputation  than  one  for  scrupulous  accuracy. 
Would  Claude  Westwood's  brother  be  likely  to  re- 
ceive a  telegram  to  the  same  effect  as  hers,  and  if  so, 
how  was  it  that  Dick  had  not  come  to  her  at  once  ? 
Could  it  be  that  he  questioned  the  accuracy  of  the 
news  and  was  waiting  until  he  had  it  confirmed  by 
direct  communication  with  Zanzibar  before  coming 
to  her  ?  And  if  Dick  doubted  the  authentic  nature 
of  the  message,  was  there  not  more  than  a  possi- 
bility that  there  was  some  mistake  in  it  ?  She  knew 
all  the  systems  of  communication  between  Central 
Africa  and  the  coast,  she  did  not  require  any  further 
information  on  that  point;  and  she  was  aware  of 
the  ease  with  which  an  error  could  be  made  in  a 
name  or  an  incident  between  Uganda  and  Zanzibar. 

Before   she  reached  the  house,   the  confidence 


74  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 


which  she  had  had  in  the  accuracy  of  the  message 
had  vanished.  With  every  step  she  took,  a  fresh 
doubt  arose  in  her  mind;  so  that  when  she  threw 
herself  down  in  the  seat  at  the  porch  she  was 
tremulous  with  excitement. 

What  could  he  say  to  soothe  her  ?  She  knew  far 
more  than  he  did  about  the  romance  of  African 
exploration,  and  being  aware  of  this  fact,  he  felt 
that  it  would  be  ridiculous  for  him  to  refer  to  the 
many  cases  there  had  been  of  explorers  reappearing 
suddenly  after  years  of  hopeless  silence.  She  was 
more  fully  acquainted  than  he  was  with  the  inci- 
dents connected  with  these  cases  of  the  lost  being 
found.  All  that  he  could  do  was  to  assure  her  that 
no  first-class  newspaper,  however  anxious  it  might 
be  to  maintain  a  reputation  for  enterprise,  would 
wilfully  concoct  such  an  item  of  news  as  that  of 
which  Agnes  held  the  summary  in  her  hand.  It 
was  perfectly  clear  that  the  newspaper  had  good 
reason  for  publishing  in  an  authoritative  manner 
the  news  of  the  safety  of  Claude  Westwood,  other- 
wise the  words  "Authority  unquestionable"  would 
not  have  been  used  in  transmitting  the  substance  of 
the  intelligence. 

This  Sir  Percival  pointed  out  to  her;  and  then, 
after  a  few  moments  of  thought,  Agnes  rose  from 
her  seat,  not  without  an  effort,  and  announced  her 
intention  of  going  to  Westwood  Court. 

"  Dick  cannot  have  received  the  news  or  he  would 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 75 

surely  be  with  me  now,"  she  said.  "Ah,  what 
will  he  think  of  it  ?  He  never  gave  up  hope. 
Everything  he  said  to  me  helped  to  strengthen  my 
hope.  You  have  heard  how  attached  he  and  Claude 
were?" 

Sir  Percival,  seeing  how  excited  she  had  become 
— how  she  alternated  between  the  extremes  of  hope 
and  fear,  dissuaded  her  from  her  intention  of  going 
to  the  Court  at  once. 

"You  must  have  some  rest,"  he  said.  "The 
strain  of  going  to  the  Court  would  be  too  much 
for  you.  You  must  not  run  the  chance  of  breaking 
down  when  you  need  most  to  be  strong.  You  will 
let  me  do  this  for  you.  I  will  see  Westwood  my- 
self, whether  he  is  at  the  Court  or  at  the  bank,  and 
bring  him  to  you." 

"I  am  sure  you  are  right,  my  dear  friend,"  she 
said.  "Oh  yes,  it  is  far  better  for  you  to  bring 
him  here.  I  cannot  understand  why  Cyril  has  not 
come  down  yet.  He  should  be  the  one  to  go.  But 
you  do  not  mind  the  trouble  ?" 

"Trouble!"  he  said,  and  then  laughed.  "Trou- 
ble!" 

He  had  gone  some  way  down  the  drive  when 
she  called  him  back.  She  had  left  the  porch  of  the 
house,  and  was  standing  against  the  trellis-work 
over  which  a  rose  was  climbing.  He  returned  to 
her  at  once. 

"  Listen  to  me,  Sir  Percival,"  she  said  in  a  curious 


76  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 

voice.  "  You  are  not  to  join  with  Dick  in  any  com- 
promise in  regard  to  the  news.  If  he  believes  that 
the  report  of  Claude's  safety  is  not  to  be  trusted, 
you  are  to  say  so  to  me:  it  will  not  be  showing 
your  regard  for  me  if  you  come  back  saying  some- 
thing to  lessen  the  blow  that  Dick's  doubt  of  the 
accuracy  of  the  news  will  be  to  me.  You  will  be 
treating  me  best  if  you  tell  me  word  for  word  what 
he  says." 

"You  may  trust  me,"  he  said  quietly. 

His  heart  was  full  of  pity  for  her,  for  he  could 
without  difficulty  see  that  she  was  in  a  perilous  con- 
dition of  excitement. 

"I  will  trust  you — oh,  have  I  not  trusted  you ?" 
she  cried.  "  I  do  not  want  to  live  in  a  Fool's  Para- 
dise— Heaven  only  knows  if  I  have  not  been  living 
there  during  the  past  years.  Paradise  ?  No,  it  can- 
not be  called  a  Paradise,  for  in  no  Paradise  can  there 
be  the  agony  of  waiting  that  was  mine.  And  now 
— now — ah,  do  you  think  that  I  shall  have  an  hour 
of  Paradise  till  you  return  with  the  truth  ? — the 
truth,  mind — that  is  what  I  want." 

He  went  away  without  speaking  a  word  of  reply 
to  her.  What  would  be  the  good  of  saying  any- 
thing to  a  woman  in  her  condition  ?  She  had  all  the 
sympathy  of  his  heart.  As  he  went  along  the  road 
to  the  Court  he  began  to  wonder  how  it  was  that 
he  had  not  guessed  long  ago  that  the  life  of  this 
woman  was  not  as  the  life  of  other  women.  It 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 77 

seemed  to  have  occurred  to  no  one  in  the  neighbour- 
hood to  tell  him  what  was  the  life  that  Miss  Mow- 
bray  had  chosen  to  live — that  life  of  waiting  and 
waiting  through  the  long  years.  He  supposed  that 
her  story  had  lost  its  interest  for  such  persons  as  he 
had  met  during  the  year  that  he  had  been  in  Brack- 
enshire;  or  they  had  not  fancied  that  it  would  ever 
become  of  such  intense  interest  to  him  as  it  was  on 
this  morning  of  June  sunshine  and  singing  birds  and 
fleecy  clouds  and  sweet  scents  of  meadow  grass 
and  flower-beds. 

He  was  conscious  of  a  curious  feeling  of  indigna- 
tion in  regard  to  the  man  who  had  been  cruel  enough 
to  take  from  that  woman  her  promise  to  love  him, 
and  him  only,  and  then  to  leave  her  to  waste  her 
life  away  in  waiting  for  him.  He  fancied  he  could 
picture  her  life  during  the  years  that  Claude  West- 
wood  had  been  absent,  and  he  felt  that  he  had  a 
right  to  be  indignant  with  a  man  who  had  been  sel- 
fish enough  to  bind  a  woman  to  himself  with  such 
a  bond.  Of  course  most  women  would,  he  knew, 
not  consider  such  a  bond  binding  upon  them  after  a 
year  or  two:  they  would  have  been  faithful  to  the 
man  for  a  year — perhaps  some  of  the  most  devoted 
might  have  been  faithful  for  as  long  as  eighteen 
months  after  his  departure  from  England,  and  the 
extremely  conscientious  ones  for  six  months  after  he 
had  been  swallowed  up  in  the  blackness  of  that  black 
continent.  They  would  not  have  been  content  to 


78  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 

live  the  life  that  had  been  Agnes  Mowbray's — the 
life  of  waiting  and  hoping  with  those  alternate  in- 
tervals of  despair. 

The  man  had  behaved  cruelly  toward  her,  for  he 
should  have  known  that  she  was  not  as  other 
women.  It  was  the  feeling  that  the  man  was  not 
worthy  of  her  that  caused  Sir  Percival  Hope  his  only 
misgiving.  He  wondered  if  he  himself  had  chanced 
to  meet  Agnes  before  she  had  known  Claude  West- 
wood,  what  would  her  life  have  been — what  would 
his  life  have  been  ? 

He  stood  in  the  road  and  tried  to  form  a  picture 
of  their  life — of  their  lives  joined  together  so  as  to 
make  one  life. 

He  hurried  on.  The  picture  was  too  bright  to  be 
looked  upon.  He  found  it  easier  to  think  of  the 
picture  which  had  been  before  his  eyes  when  he  had 
looked  back  hearing  her  voice  calling  him — the  pic- 
ture of  a  beautiful  pale  woman,  with  one  hand  lean- 
ing on  the  trellis-work  of  the  porch,  while  the  roses 
drooped  down  to  her  hair. 

"  The  cruelty  of  it — the  cruelty  of  it! "  he  groaned, 
as  he  hurried  on  to  perform  his  mission. 

And  these  were  the  very  words  that  Agnes  Mow- 
bray  was  moaning  at  the  same  instant,  as  she  fell 
on  her  knees  beside  the  sofa  in  her  dressing-room. 
This  was  all  the  prayer  that  her  lips  could  frame  at 
that  moment. 

"The  cruelty  of  it!    The  cruelty  of  it!"    That 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 


was  the  result  of  all  her  thoughts  of  the  past  years 
that  she  had  spent  in  waiting. 

She  and  God  knew  what  those  years  had  been  — 
the  years  that  had  robbed  her  of  her  youth,  that  had 
planted  those  grey  hairs  where  the  soft  brown  had 
been.  All  the  past  seemed  unfolded  in  front  of  her 
like  a  scroll.  She  thought  of  her  parting  from  her 
lover  on  that  chill  October  day,  when  every  breeze 
sent  the  leaves  flying  in  crisp  flakes  through  the  air. 
Not  a  tear  did  she  shed  while  she  was  saying  that 
farewell  to  him.  She  had  carried  herself  bravely  — 
yes,  as  she  stood  beside  the  privet  hedge  and  waved 
her  hand  to  him  on  the  road  on  which  he  was  driving 
to  catch  the  train;  but  when  she  had  returned  to  the 
house  and  her  father  had  put  his  arm  round  her,  she 
was  not  quite  so  self-possessed.  Her  tears  came  in 
a  torrent  all  at  once,  and  she  cried  out  for  him  to 
come  back  to  her. 

He  had  not  come  back  to  her.  Through  the  long 
desolate  years  that  had  been  her  cry;  but  he  had  not 
come  back  to  her.  Oh!  the  desolation  of  those 
years  that  followed  !  At  first  she  had  received  many 
letters  from  him.  So  long  as  he  was  in  touch  with 
some  form  of  civilisation,  however  rudimentary  it 
was,  he  had  written  to  her;  but  then  the  letters  be- 
came few  and  irregular.  He  could  only  trust  that 
one  out  of  every  six  that  he  wrote  would  reach  her, 
he  said,  for  he  only  wrote  on  the  chance  of  meeting 
an  elephant-hunter  or  a  slave-raider  going  to  the 


8o  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 


coast  who  would  take  a  letter  for  him— for  a  con- 
sideration. She  had  not  the  least  objection  to  re- 
ceive a  letter,  even  though  it  had  been  posted  by  the 
red  hand  of  the  half-caste  slave-raider. 

But  afterwards  the  letters  ceased  altogether.  She 
tried  to  find  courage  in  the  reflection  that  the  rascally 
men  who  had  been  entrusted  with  the  letters  had 
flung  them  away,  or  perhaps  they  had  been  killed  or 
had  died  naturally  before  reaching  the  coast.  Only 
for  a  time  did  she  find  some  comfort  in  thus  ac- 
counting for  the  absence  of  all  news  regarding  him. 
At  the  end  of  a  year  she  read  in  a  newspaper  an 
article  in  which  the  writer  assumed  that  all  hope  for 
the  safety  of  Claude  Westwood  had  been  aban- 
doned. The  writer  of  the  article  was  clearly  an  ex- 
pert in  African  exploration.  He  was  ready  to  quote 
instance  after  instance  since  the  days  of  Hanno,  of 
explorers  who  had  dared  too  much  and  had  been 
cut  off — some  by  what  he  called  the  legitimate 
enemies  of  pioneers,  namely,  disease  and  privation, 
others  by  that  cruelty  which  has  its  habitation  in  the 
dark  places  of  the  earth,  and  nowhere  in  greater 
abundance  than  in  the  dark  places  of  the  Dark 
Continent. 

She  recollected  what  her  feelings  had  been  as  she 
read  that  article  and  scores  of  other  articles,  dealing 
with  the  disappearance  of  Claude  Westwood.  She 
had  not  broken  down.  Her  father  had  pointed  out 
to  her  the  extraordinary  mistakes  so  easily  made  by 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 81 

the  experts  who  wrote  on  the  subject  of  Claude 
Westwood's  disappearance;  and  if  they  were  able 
to  bring  forward  instances  of  the  loss  of  intrepid 
men  who  had  set  out  in  the  hope  of  adding  to  the 
world's  knowledge  of  the  world,  the  Admiral  was 
able  to  give  quite  as  many  instances  of  the  safe  re- 
turn of  explorers  who  had  been  given  up  for  lost. 
Thus  she  and  her  father  kept  up  each  other's  hopes 
until  the  question  of  Claude's  safety  ceased  to  be 
even  alluded  to  in  the  press  as  a  topic  of  the  day. 

She  had  never  lost  hope;  but  this  fact  did  not 
prevent  her  having  dreams  of  the  night.  She  was 
accustomed  to  awake  with  a  cry,  seeing  him  tor- 
tured by  savages — seeing  him  lying  alone  in  a  coun- 
try where  no  tree  was  growing.  And  then  she 
would  remain  awake  through  the  long  night,  pray- 
ing for  his  safety. 

That  had  been  her  life  for  years,  and  now  she  was 
still  praying  for  his  safety— praying  that  the  day  of 
the  realisation  of  her  hopes  had  at  last  come. 

She  started  up,  hearing  the  sound  of  footsteps  on 
the  gravel  path.  She  was  at  her  window  in  time  to 
see  Sir  Percival  in  the  act  of  entering  the  porch. 
He  had  not  been  long  absent.  He  could  not  have 
had  a  long  conversation  with  Richard  Westwood. 

She  met  him  while  he  was  still  in  the  porch. 
They  stood  face  to  face  for  a  few  moments,  but  no 
word  came  from  either  of  them  for  a  long  time. 
She  seemed  to  think  that  she  was  about  to  fall,  for 


82  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 

she  put  out  a  hand  to  the  velvet  portiere  that  hung 
in  an  arch  leading  to  the  hall — that  was  her  right 
hand — her  left  was  pressed  against  her  heart. 

"You  need  not  speak."  she  whispered,  when  they 
had  stood  face  to  face  in  that  long  silence.  "  You 
need  not  speak.  1  know  all  that  your  silence  im- 
plies." 

"No — no — you  know  nothing  of  what  I  have  to 
tell  you,"  said  he  slowly. 

"What  have  you  to  tell?  Can  you  tell  me  any- 
thing worse  than  that  Claude  Westwood  is  dead  ?" 

"It  is  not  Claude  Westwood  who  is  dead." 

"  Not  Claude  ? — who — who,  then,  is  dead  ?" 

"  Richard  Westwood  is  dead." 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

SHE  continued  looking  at  him  after  he  had  spoken, 
as  though  she  failed  to  grasp  the  meaning  of  his 
words.  It  seemed  as  if  they  conveyed  nothing 
definite  to  her. 

"I  don't  think  I  heard  you  aright,  Sir  Percival," 
she  said  at  last.  "There  was  no  question  of  Rich- 
ard Westwood's  being  alive  or  dead.  You  went  to 
find  out  about  Claude." 

"  I  went  to  find  out  about  Claude,  but  I  did  not 
get  further  than  the  lodge,"  said  Sir  Percival.  "  At 
the  lodge  I  heard  what  had  happened.  It  is  a  terrible 
thing!  The  events  of  the  day  must  have  affected 
him  more  deeply  than  we  imagined  they  would." 

"  You  mean  to  tell  me  that  Dick — that  Richard 
Westwood  is  dead  ?"  said  Agnes. 

"  He  died  this  morning." 

"Dead!  But  I  was  with  him  yesterday.  My 
brother  Cyril  dined  with  him  last  night." 

"I  tell  you  it  is  a  terrible  thing.  Poor  fellow! 
His  mind  must  have  given  way  beneath  the  strain 
that  the  run  upon  the  bank  entailed  upon  him. 
Dear  Agnes,  let  me  help  you  to  reach  your  chair. 
Pray  lean  on  me." 

She  did  not  seem  to  hear  what  he  had  said.  She 
was  dazed  but  striving  to  recover  herself. 

83 


84  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 


"I  cannot  understand,"  she  said.  "It  appears 
strange  that  I  cannot  understand  when  you  have 
spoken  quite  plainly.  But  we  were  talking  about 
Claude — not  Dick.  You  were  to  find  out  what 
Dick  thought  regarding  the  rumour  of  Claude's  be- 
ing alive — so  far  I  am  quite  clear.  But  here  you 
come  to  me  saying:  '  It  is  Dick  Westwood  and  not 
Claude  who  is  dead.'  What  on  earth  can  you 
mean  by  saying  that,  when  all  I  wanted  to  know 
was  about  Claude  ?  " 

"My  dear  Agnes,  I  can  say  nothing  more.  This 
second  shock  is  too  much  for  you.  In  a  few  min- 
utes, however,  you  will  be  able  to  realise  what  has 
happened.  Where  is  your  brother  ?  I  must  speak 
to  him." 

"No — no;  do  not  leave  me.  If  he  is  dead — and 
you  say  that  he  is  dead — I  have  no  friend  in  the 
world  but  you.  Ah,  you  must  not  leave  me.  I  do 
not  think  I  have  any  one  in  the  world  but  you." 

She  spoke  in  a  tone  of  pitiful  entreaty,  holding 
out  both  her  hands  to  him,  as  she  had  done  once  in 
the  garden. 

He  took  her  hands  and  held  them  for  a  moment, 
but  he  did  not  press  them,  as  another  man  might 
have  done,  when  she  had  spoken.  He  said  gently: 

"I  will  not  leave  you — whatever  may  happen  I 
will  be  by  your  side.  Now  you  will  sit  down." 

He  had  just  helped  her  to  one  of  the  chairs  that 
stood  in  the  porch,  when  the  portiere  was  flung 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 85 

aside,  and  Cyril,  in  the  act  of  lighting  a  cigarette, 
appeared. 

"Hallo,  Agnes,  I'm  a  bit  late,  I  suppose,"  he  be- 
gan, but  seeing  Sir  Percival  helping  her  as  though 
she  were  as  feeble  as  an  invalid,  to  the  chair,  he 
stopped  short.  "  What's  the  matter,  Sir  Percival  ?" 
he  said,  in  another  tone,  but  not  one  of  great  con- 
cern. 

"Tell  him— tell  him;  perhaps  he  will  under- 
stand," said  Agnes,  looking  up  to  Sir  Percival's  face. 

"You  do  not  mind  my  speaking  to  him  for  a 
minute  in  the  garden  ?"  said  Sir  Percival. 

"Go;  perhaps  he  will  understand,"  said  she. 

He  held  up  a  finger  to  Cyril,  and  they  went  out- 
side together. 

"What's  the  mystery  now?"  asked  Cyril,  pick- 
ing up  his  straw  hat  from  a  chair.  "  I  shouldn't 
wonder  if  it  had  something  to  do  with  Claude 
Westwood.  My  poor  sister  is  overcome  because 
she  has  received  confirmation  of  his  death  probably. 
But  you  and  I  know,  Sir  Percival,  that  there  has  not 
been  the  smallest  chance." 

"I  do  not  want  to  talk  to  you  about  Claude 
Westwood  just  at  this  minute,  but  about  his 
brother,"  said  Sir  Percival.  "The  fact  is,  that  I 
have  just  returned  from  the  Court.  The  dead  body 
of  Richard  Westwood  was  found  by  a  gardener 
this  morning  not  twenty  yards  from  his  house.  He 
had  shot  himself  with  a  revolver." 


86  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 


Cyril  turned  very  pale,  but  the  cigarette  that  he 
was  smoking  did  not  drop  from  his  lips.  He 
stared  at  Sir  Percival  for  some  moments,  and  then 
slowly  removed  his  cigarette.  He  drew  a  long 
breath  before  saying  in  a  whisper: 

"Shot  himself  ?  Then  he  was  bankrupt  after  all, 
and  Agnes's  money  is  gone.  Why  the  mischief 
did  you  give  her  that  cheque  yesterday,  Sir  Per- 
cival ?  " 

"  I  thought  it  well  that  you  should  hear  this  ter- 
rible news  at  once,"  said  Sir  Percival,  ignoring  his 
question.  "  I  believe  that  you  dined  with  him  last 
night,  and  so  you  were  probably  the  last  person  to 
see  him  alive.  You  will  most  certainly  be  ques- 
tioned by  the  Chief  Constable  before  the  inquest." 

"The  Chief  Constable  or  any  other  constable 
may  question  me;  I  don't  mind.  I  don't  suppose  it 
will  be  suggested  that  I  shot  poor  Dick,"  said  Cyril, 
somewhat  jauntily. 

Sir  Percival  made  no  reply,  and  Cyril  went  on. 

"Good  heavens!  Poor  old  Dick!  I'm  sorry  for 
him.  I  have  good  reason  to  be  sorry.  He  was  the 
best  friend  I  had.  He  understood  me.  He  wasn't 
too  hard  on  a  chap  like  me.  The  people  in  this 
neighbourhood  think  that  I'm  a  bad  egg — you  prob- 
ably think  so  too,  Sir  Percival;  but  poor  Dick  never 
joined  with  the  others  in  boycotting  me,  though  he 
knew  more  about  me  than  any  of  them !  And  to 
think  that  all  the  time  he  was  playing  that  game  of 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 87 

billiards — all  the  time  he  was  crossing  the  park  with 
me  when  I  was  going  home,  he  meant  to  put  an 
end  to  himself." 

"You  will  probably  be  asked  some  questions  on 
this  point  by  the  Chief  Constable, "said  Sir  Percival. 
"  He  will  ask  you  if  you  can  testify  to  his  state  of 
mind  last  evening.  You  drove  back  with  him  from 
the  bank,  I  believe?" 

"I  drove  back  with  him,  and  dined  with  him. 
We  had  a  game  of  billiards,  the  same  as  usual,  and 
then  he  walked  across  the  park  with  me,  as  I  say. 
That's  all  I  have  to  tell.  1  know  nothing  about  his 
condition  of  mind;  but  he  admitted  to  me  more 
than  once  that  he  had  had  rather  a  bad  time  of  it 
while  those  fools  were  in  the  bank  clamouring  for 
their  money — it  appears  that  they  weren't  such 
great  fools  after  all.  Poor  old  Dick!  He  took  me 
up  quite  seriously  when  I  suggested  that  he  should 
marry  Agnes.  He  pretended  to  believe  that  Claude 
was  still  alive,  as  if  he  didn't  know  as  well  as  you 
or  I,  Sir  Percival " — 

"  There  is  every  likelihood  that  Claude  Westwood 
is  alive,"  said  Sir  Percival. 

"  What — Claude  Westwood  alive  and  Dick  West- 
wood  dead?"  cried  Cyril.  "Pardon  me  if  I  seem 
rude,  Sir  Percival,  but  what  on  earth  are  you  talk- 
ing about?" 

"I  have  told  you  all  that  I  know,"  said  Sir  Per- 
cival. "Your  sister  got  a  telegram  an  hour  ago 


88  WELL,  AFTER  ALL- 


telling  her  that  a  London  newspaper  contains  a 
piece  of  exclusive  news  regarding  Claude  West- 
wood,  and  the  information  is  described  as  accurate 
beyond  question." 

' '  Great  Scott !  "  said  Cyril  after  a  pause.  ' '  What's 
the  meaning  of  this,  anyway  ?  One  brother  turns 
up  alive  and  well  after  being  lost  in  Africa  for  eight 
years,  and  the  other — Good  heavens!  What  can 
any  one  say  when  things  like  that  are  occurring 
under  our  very  eyes  ?  Why  couldn't  Dick  have 
waited  until  the  news  came  ?  He  would  not  have 
shot  himself  if  he  had  known  that  Claude  was 
alive,  I'll  swear.  And  as  for  Claude — well,  v/hen 
he  gets  the  news  from  Brackenhurst,  he'll  be  in- 
clined to  wish  that  he  had  remained  in  the  interior." 

"They  were  so  deeply  attached  to  each  other?" 

"Well,  of  course,  Sir  Percival,  I  can't  say  any- 
thing about  that  from  my  own  recollection,  but 
every  one  about  here  says  they  were  like  David 
and  Jonathan — like  Damon  and  the  other  chap. 
Nothing  ever  came  between  them — not  even  a 
woman;  and  I  need  hardly  tell  you,  Sir  Percival, 
that  the  appearance  of  the  woman  is  usually  the 
signal  for  " — 

"Here  is  Major  Borrowdaile,"  said  Sir  Percival, 
interrupting  the  outburst  of  cynical  philosophy  on 
the  part  of  the  youth,  as  a  dog-cart  driven  by  Major 
Borrowdaile,  the  Chief  Constable  of  the  county, 
passed  through  the  entrance  gates. 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 89 

Cyril  allowed  himself  to  be  interrupted  without 
a  protest.  His  nonchalance  vanished  as  the  officer 
jumped  from  the  dog-cart  and  went  across  the 
lawn  to  him.  Sir  Percival  took  a  few  steps  to 
meet  Major  Borrowdaile,  but  Cyril  did  not  move. 

"You  have  heard  of  this  nasty  business,  Sir  Per- 
cival ?  "  said  the  officer. 

"I  have  just  come  from  the  lodge  at  the  Court," 
replied  Sir  Percival.  "There's  no  possibility  of  a 
mistake  being  made,  I  suppose  ?  It  is  certain  that 
Mr.  Westwood  shot  himself." 

"It  is  certain  that  the  poor  fellow  was  found 
shot  through  the  lungs,"  said  the  Chief  Constable 
cautiously.  "I  hear  that  you  dined  with  him  last 
night,  Mowbray,"  he  continued,  turning  to  Cyril. 
"That  is  why  I  have  troubled  you  with  a  visit." 

"Why  should  you  come  to  me?"  said  Cyril, 
almost  plaintively.  "  I  dined  with  Dick  Westwood, 
and  parted  from  him  at  the  road  gate  before  mid- 
night. That's  all  I  know  about  the  business." 

"That  means  you  were  the  last  person  to  see 
him  alive.  He  must  have  been  shot  on  returning 
to  the  house  after  letting  you  through  the  road 
gate." 

"Must  have  been  shot?"  cried  Cyril.  "Why, 
you  said  he  had  shot  himself,  Sir  Percival." 

"He  was  found  with  a  revolver  close  to  his 
hand,"  said  Major  Borrowdaile,  "and  the  under- 
gardener,  who  discovered  the  body,  took  it  for 


90  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 


granted  that  he  had  committed  suicide.  You  see 
the  fact  that  there  was  a  run  upon  the  bank  yester- 
day induces  some  people  to  jump  to  the  conclusion 
that  he  committed  suicide,  just  as  the  assumption 
that  he  committed  suicide  will  lead  many  people  to 
assume  that  the  affairs  of  the  bank  are  in  an  un- 
satisfactory condition.  They  are  bad  logicians. 
Did  he  seem  at  all  depressed  in  the  course  of  the 
evening,  Mowbray  ?  " 

"  Not  he,"  replied  Cyril.  "  He  was  just  the  op- 
posite. He  ate  a  first-class  dinner,  and  we  dis- 
cussed the  fools  who  made  the  run  upon  the  bank. 
It  seems  that  they  weren't  such  fools  after  all — so 
I've  been  saying  to  Sir  Percival." 

"You  are  another  of  the  imperfect  logicians," 
said  Major  Borrowdaile.  "I  want  facts — not  de- 
ductions, if  you  please.  If  there  are  to  be  any 
deductions  made  I  prefer  making  them  myself.  I 
promise  you  that  I  shall  make  them  on  a  basis  of 
fact.  Dr.  Mitford  saw  our  poor  friend,  and  he  has 
had,  as  you  know,  a  large  experience  of  bullet 
wounds — he  went  through  four  campaigns — and 
he  declares  that  it  is  quite  impossible  that  Mr. 
Westwood  could  have  shot  himself.  The  bullet 
entered  the  lungs  from  behind.  Now,  men  who 
wish  to  commit  suicide  do  not  shoot  themselves  in 
that  way.  They  have  the  best  of  reasons  for  re- 
fraining. That  is  fact  number  one.  Fact  number 
two  is  that  the  revolver  which  was  found  at  his 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 91 

hand  was  not  Mr.  Westwood's — his  own  revolver 
was  found  safe  in  his  own  bedroom." 

•'Then  the  deduction  is  simple,"  said  Sir  Per- 
cival.  "  Some  one  must  have  shot  him." 

"I  am  afraid  that  is  the  only  conclusion  one  can 
come  to,  considering  the  facts  which  I  have  placed 
before  you,  Sir  Percival,"  said  Major  Borrowdaile. 
"This  view  is  strengthened  by  Mowbray's  testi- 
mony as  to  the  condition  of  Mr.  Westwood  last 
night:  he  was  not  depressed  nor  had  he  any  reason 
to  be  depressed,  the  run  upon  the  bank  having  been 
successfully  averted." 

"  But  who  could  have  borne  him  a  grudge  ?  He 
was,  1  have  always  believed,  the  most  popular  man 
in  the  neighbourhood,"  said  Sir  Percival. 

The  Chief  Constable  glanced  toward  Cyril  saying: 

"Perhaps  Mowbray  here  will  be  able  to  give  us 
at  least  a  clue." 

"I  ? — I  know  nothing  of  the  matter,"  said  Cyril. 
"1  have  told  you  all  that  I  know.  We  parted  at 
the  gate  in  the  wall  of  the  park — it  saves  me  a 
round  of  more  than  half  a  mile — that's  all  I  know, 
I  assure  you." 

"Then  I'm  disappointed  in  my  mission  to  you," 
said  the  Chief  Constable.  "The  fact  is  that  one  of 
the  servants  came  to  us  with  a  singular  story  of  a 
visitor — a  man  wearing  a  rather  shabby  coat  and 
a  soft  hat.  He  says  he  entered  the  room  when  this 
man  was  having  an  altercation  with  Mr.  West- 


92  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 


wood,  at  which  you  were  present,  and  the 
revolver" — 

"Great  Scott!"  cried  Cyril.  "How  could  I  be 
such  an  idiot  as  to  forget  that!  The  man  came 
into  the  drawing-room  through  the  open  window, 
and  called  Dick  a  swindler.  He  pulled  out  a  re- 
volver and  covered  Dick  with  it  just  as  the  servant 
entered  the  room.  Dick  took  the  matter  very 
coolly  and  the  fellow  threw  the  revolver  out  of 
the  window,  and  walked  out  by  the  door  himself 
— but  not  before  he  had  threatened  Dick.  Oh, 
there  can  be  no  doubt  about  it;  the  shot  was  fired 
by  that  man." 

"Did  he  mention  what  was  his  name?"  asked 
Major  Borrowdaile. 

"He  did — yes,  he  said  his  name  was — now 
what  the  mischief  did  he  say  it  was  ?  Stanley  ? — 
no — Stanmore? — I  think  he  said  his  name  was 
Stanmore.  No.  I  have  it  now — Standish;  and  he 
mentioned  that  he  had  just  come  from  Midleigh. 
Oh,  there's  no  doubt  that  he  fired  the  shot.  Why 
on  earth  haven't  you  tried  to  arrest  him  ?  He  can't 
have  gone  very  far  as  yet." 

"  He  was  arrested  half  an  hour  ago,"  said  the 
Chief  Constable. 

"Heavens  above!  He  didn't  runaway?"  cried 
Cyril. 

"On  the  contrary,  he  walked  straight  into  the 
bank  the  first  thing  this  morning,  and  tried  to 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 93 

make  a  row  because  the  cashier  hadn't  arrived," 
said  Major  Borrowdaile.  "He  waited  there,  and 
when  the  news  came  that  Mr.  Westwood  was  dead 
and  the  doors  of  the  bank  were  about  to  be  closed, 
he  refused  to  leave  the  premises.  That  was  where 
he  made  a  mistake;  for  he  was  arrested  by  my 
sergeant  on  suspicion,  though  the  sergeant  had 
heard  that  Mr.  Westwood  had  shot  himself.  And 
yet  we  hear  that  there  is  no  intelligence  apart  from 
Scotland  Yard!" 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE  London  evening  papers  were  full  of  the 
name  of  Westwood,  and  the  pleasant  little  country 
town  of  Brackenhurst  was  during  the  afternoon 
overrun  with  representatives  of  the  Press,  the 
majority  of  whom  were,  to  the  amazement  of  the 
legitimate  inhabitants,  far  more  anxious  to  obtain 
some  items  relating  to  the  personal  history — the 
more  personal  the  better — of  Claude  Westwood, 
than  to  become  acquainted  with  the  local  estimate 
of  the  character  of  his  brother.  The  people  of  the 
neighbourhood  could  not  understand  how  it  was 
possible  that  the  world  should  regard  the  reappear- 
ance of  a  distinguished  explorer  after  an  absence  of 
eight  years  with  much  greater  interest  than  the 
murder  of  a  provincial  banker — even  supposing 
that  Mr.  Westwood  was  murdered,  which  was  to 
place  the  incident  of  his  death  in  the  most  favour- 
able light — from  the  standpoint  of  those  newspapers 
that  live  by  sensational  headlines. 

The  next  morning  every  newspaper  worthy  of 
the  name  had  a  leading  article  upon  the  West- 
woods,  and  pointed  out  how  the  tragic  elements 
associated  with  the  death  of  one  of  the  brothers 
were  intensified  by  the  fact  that  if  he  had  only  lived 
for  a  few  hours  longer,  he  would  have  heard  of  the 

94 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 95 

safety  of  his  distinguished  brother,  to  whom  he 
was  deeply  attached.  While  almost  every  news- 
paper contained  half  a  column  telling  the  story — so 
far  as  it  was  known — of  the  supposed  murder  of 
Richard  Westwood,  a  far  greater  space  was  devoted 
to  the  story  of  the  escape  of  Claude  Westwood 
from  the  savages  of  the  Upper  Zambesi,  who  had 
killed  every  member  of  his  expedition  and  had 
kept  him  in  captivity  for  eight  years. 

The  people  of  Brackenhurst  could  not  understand 
such  a  lapse  of  judgment  on  the  part  of  the  chief 
newspaper  editors:  they  were,  of  course,  very 
proud  of  the  fact  that  Claude  Westwood  was  a 
Brackenshireman,  but  they  were  far  prouder  of 
the  distinction  of  being  associated  with  the  locality 
of  a  murder  about  which  every  one  in  the  country 
was  talking. 

Cyril  Mowbray  found  himself  suddenly  advanced 
to  a  position  of  unlooked-for  prominence,  owing  to 
the  amount  of  information  he  was  able  to  give 
to  the  newspaper  men  regarding  the  scene  during 
the  run  on  the  bank,  and  the  scene  in  the  drawing- 
room  at  the  Court,  when  the  man  who  called  him- 
self Standish  had  entered,  demanding  the  money 
which  he  had  lodged  the  previous  year  in  West- 
woods'  bank.  Only  once  before  had  Cyril  found 
himself  in  a  position  of  equal  prominence,  and  that 
was  when  he  had  been  finally  sent  down  at  Oxford 
for  participating  in  a  prank  of  such  a  character  as 


96  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 


caused  the  name  of  his  college  to  appear  in  every 
newspaper  for  close  upon  a  week  under  the  head- 
ing of  "The  University  Scandal."  Before  the 
expiration  of  that  week  Cyril's  name  was  in  the 
mouth  of  every  undergraduate,  and  he  felt,  for  the 
remainder  of  the  week,  all  the  gratification  which 
is  the  result  (sometimes)  of  a  sudden  accession  to 
a  position  of  prominence  after  a  long  period  of 
comparative  obscurity. 

But  his  sister  Agnes  was  completely  prostrated 
by  what  had  now  happened — by  the  gladness  of 
hearing  that  her  lover  was  safe — that  her  long  years 
of  watching  and  waiting  had  not  been  in  vain,  and 
by  the  grief  of  knowing  that  her  gladness  could  not 
be  shared  by  Dick  Westwood.  It  seemed  to  her 
that  her  hour  of  grief  had  swallowed  up  her  hour  of 
joy.  She  could  not  look  forward  to  the  delight  of 
meeting  Claude  once  again  without  feeling  that  her 
triumph  —  the  triumph  of  her  constancy  —  was 
robbed  of  more  than  half  its  pleasure,  since  it  could 
not  be  shared  by  poor  Dick.  A  week  ago  the  news 
that  her  lover  was  safe  would  have  thrilled  her  with 
delight;  but  now  it  seemed  to  her  a  barren  joy  even 
to  anticipate  his  return:  she  knew  that  he  would 
never  recover'  from  the  blow  of  his  brother's  death 
— she  knew  that  all  the  love  she  might  lavish  upon 
him  would  not  diminish  the  bitterness  of  the 
thoughts  that  would  be  his  when  he  returned  to  the 
Court  and  found  it  desolate. 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 97 

She  read  with  but  the  smallest  amount  of  interest 
the  newspaper  articles  that  eulogised  Claude  West- 
wood  and  his  achievements.  She  seemed  to  have 
but  an  impersonal  connection  with  the  discoveries 
that  he  had  made — suggestions  of  their  magnitude 
appeared  almost  daily  in  the  newspapers;  and  the 
fact  that  an  enterprising  publishing  firm  in  England 
had  sent  out  a  special  emissary  to  meet  him  at 
Zanzibar  with  an  offer  of  ,£25,000  for  his  book — it 
was  taken  as  a  matter  of  course  that  he  would  write 
a  book — interested  her  no  more  than  did  the  infor- 
mation that  an  American  lecture  bureau  had  cabled 
to  their  English  agent  to  make  arrangements  with 
him  for  a  series  of  lectures — it  was  assumed  that  he 
would  give  a  course  of  lectures  with  limelight  views 
— in  the  States,  his  remuneration  to  be  on  a  scale 
such  as  only  a  prima  donna  had  ever  dreamt  of, 
and  that  only  in  her  most  avaricious  moments.  She 
even  remained  unmoved  by  the  philosophical 
reflection  indulged  in  by  several  leader  writers,  to 
the  effect  that,  after  all,  it  would  seem  that  the 
perils  surrounding  an  ordinary  English  gentleman 
were  greater  than  those  encompassing  the  most  in- 
trepid of  explorers  in  the  most  dangerous  sphere  of 
exploration  in  the  world. 

The  foundation  for  this  philosophy  was,  of 
course,  the  coincidence  of  the  news  being  published 
confirmatory  of  the  safety  of  one  of  the  Westwoods 
on  the  same  page  that  contained  the  melancholy 


98  WELL,  AFTER  ALL • 

story  of  what  was  soon  termed  the  Brackenshire 
Tragedy. 

And  this  melancholy  story  did  not  lose  anything 
of  its  tragic  aspect  when  it  came  to  be  investigated 
before  the  usual  tribunals.  But  however  interesting 
as  well  as  profitable  it  might  be  to  give  at  length  an 
account  of  the  questions  put  to  the  witnesses  at  the 
inquest,  and  the  answers  given  by  them  to  the  solic- 
itors engaged  in  the  investigation,  such  interest  and 
profit  must  be  foregone  in  this  place.  A  reader  will 
have  to  be  content  with  the  information  of  the  bare 
fact  that  the  coroner's  jury  returned  a  verdict  of 
"Wilful  Murder"  against  the  man  who  had,  under 
the  name  of  Carton  Standish,  lodged  some  hundreds 
of  pounds  the  previous  year  in  the  Westwoods' 
bank,  and  who,  according  to  the  evidence  of  Cyril, 
corroborated  by  the  footman,  had  threatened  Mr. 
Westwood  with  a  revolver. 

Cyril  described  the  incidents  of  the  entire  inter- 
view that  Standish  had  with  Mr.  Westwood,  up  to 
the  point  of  his  throwing  the  revolver  out  of  the 
window.  He  was  not,  of  course,  prepared  to  say 
that  the  revolver  which  was  found  at  Mr.  West- 
wood's  hand  (deposed  to  by  the  under-gardener) 
was  the  same  weapon,  but  he  said  that  it  seemed  to 
him  to  be  the  same.  He  had  not  seen  the  man  pick 
up  the  revolver  from  the  grass  where  it  had  fallen. 
The  man  had  left  the  house,  not  by  the  window, 
by  which  he  had  entered,  but  by  the  hall  door.  In 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 99 

reply  to  a  question  put  to  him  Cyril  said  that  if  the 
revolver  had  been  left  on  the  grass  it  might  have 
been  picked  up  by  any  one  aware  of  the  fact  that  it 
was  there.  Neither  he  nor  Mr.  Westwood  had 
picked  it  up.  They  had  not  walked  together  in  the 
direction  of  the  Italian  garden,  but  through  the  park, 
which  was  on  the  other  side  of  the  house.  They 
had  not  discussed  the  incident  of  the  man's  entering 
the  drawing-room,  except  for  a  few  minutes,  nor 
did  it  seem  to  occur  to  Mr.  Westwood  that  he  might 
be  in  jeopardy  were  he  to  walk  through  the  grounds. 
He  appeared  to  disregard  the  man's  threats. 

The  surgeon  who  had  examined  the  body  gave  a 
horribly  technical  description  of  the  wound  made 
by  the  bullet,  and  said  he  had  no  hesitation  in 
swearing  that  the  revolver  was  fired  from  a  dis- 
tance of  at  least  twenty  feet  from  the  deceased. 
He  had  a  wide  experience  of  bullet  wounds,  but  it 
did  not  need  a  wide  experience  to  enable  a  surgeon 
to  pronounce  an  opinion  as  to  whether  or  not  a 
wound  had  been  produced  by  a  point-blank  dis- 
charge of  a  weapon,  whether  revolver  or  rifle. 

Major  Borrowdaile  and  the  police  sergeant  gave 
some  evidence  regarding  the  arrest  of  Standish,  and 
the  butler,  who  was  the  first  to  enter  the  drawing- 
room  in  the  morning,  stated  that  he  had  found  the 
French  window  open.  He  fancied  that  his  master 
had  gone  out  for  a  stroll  before  breakfast.  He 
also  said  that  he  had  heard  in  the  early  part  of  the 


\ 
loo  WELL,  AFTER  ALL- 

night  the  sound  of  several  shots;  but  he  had  taken 
it  for  granted  that  a  party  were  shooting  rabbits  in 
the  warren,  In  any  case  the  sound  of  a  shot  at 
night  in  the  park  or  the  shrubberies  would  not 
cause  alarm  among  the  servants:  they  would  take 
it  for  granted  that  a  keeper  had  fired  at  one  of  the 
wild-cats  or  perhaps  at  a  night-hawk,  or  some 
creature  of  the  woods  inimical  to  the  young  pheas- 
ants. 

This  was  considered  sufficient  evidence  by  the 
coroner's  jury,  and  the  man  was  handed  over,  to 
be  formally  committed  by  the  bench  of  magistrates. 

The  Summer  Assizes  were  held  within  a  fort- 
night, and  then,  in  addition  to  the  evidence  previ- 
ously given,  a  gunmaker  from  Midleigh  swore  that 
the  revolver  was  purchased  from  him  by  the 
prisoner  on  the  forenoon  of  the  day  when  he  had 
appeared  at  Westwood  Court.  Against  such  evi- 
dence the  statement  of  the  landlord  of  the  Three 
Swans  Inn  at  Brackenhurst,  to  the  effect  that  he 
had  admitted  the  prisoner  to  the  inn  at  a  few  min- 
utes past  midnight — the  only  direct  evidence  brought 
forward  for  the  defence — was  of  no  avail.  The 
landlord,  on  being  cross-examined,  admitted  that  his 
clock  was  not  invariably  to  be  depended  on:  on  the 
night  in  question  he  took  it  for  granted  that  it  was  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  fast.  He  would  not  swear  that 
it  was  not  customary  to  set  it  back  on  the  very  day 
of  the  week  corresponding  to  that  preceding  the 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 101 

discovery  of  the  dead  body  of  Mr.  Westwood.  He 
also  declined  to  swear  that  the  next  day  the  clock 
was  not  found  to  be  accurate. 

The  judge  upon  this  occasion  was  not  the  one 
whose  anxiety  to  sentence  men  and  women  to  be 
hanged  is  so  great  that  he  has  now  and  again 
practically  insisted  on  a  jury  returning  a  verdict  of 
guilty  against  prisoners  who,  on  being  reprieved  by 
the  Home  Secretary,  were  eventually  found  to  be 
entirely  innocent  of  the  crime  laid  to  their  charge. 
Nor  was  he  the  one  whose  unfortunate  infirmity  of 
deafness  prevents  his  hearing  more  than  a  word  or 
two  of  the  evidence.  He  was  not  even  the  one 
whose  inability  to  perceive  the  difference  between 
immorality  and  criminality  is  notorious.  He  was 
the  one  whose  ingenuity  is  made  apparent  by  his 
suggestion  of  certain  possibilities  which  have  never 
occurred  to  the  counsel  engaged  in  a  case. 

When  it  seemed  to  be  quite  certain  that  Standish 
would  be  found  guilty,  the  judge  began  to  perplex 
the  minds  of  the  jurymen  by  suggestions  of  his 
own.  He  pointed  out  that  the  prisoner  had  had 
but  one  object  in  threatening  Mr.  Westwood — 
namely,  to  recover  the  money  that  he  had  lodged  in 
Westwoods'  bank;  and  this  being  so,  what  motive 
would  he  have  for  murdering  Mr.  Westwood  until 
he  had  applied  to  the  bank  and  had  had  his  money 
refused  to  him  ? 

So  far  from  his  having  a  motive  in  killing  Mr. 


102  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 


Westwood,  and  then  placing  the  weapon  so  close 
to  his  hand  as  to  suggest  that  he  had  committed 
suicide,  he  had  the  very  best  reason  for  preventing 
the  spread  of  the  report  that  the  proprietor  of  the 
bank  had  committed  suicide,  for  it  would  be  per- 
fectly plain  to  any  one  that  the  spread  of  such  a  re- 
port would  cause  it  to  be  taken  for  granted  that 
the  affairs  of  the  bank  were  in  a  shaky  condition, 
and  the  bank  might  stop  payment  in  self-defence; 
in  which  case  the  prisoner  must  have  known  that 
his  money  would  be  in  serious  jeopardy. 

He  then  went  on  to  point  out  how  no  evidence 
had  been  brought  forward  to  prove  that  the 
prisoner  had  ever  regained  possession  of  the  re- 
volver after  he  had  thrown  it  out  of  the  window,  so 
that  it  was  open  for  any  one  who  might  have  found 
the  weapon,  to  use  it  with  deadly  effect  against  Mr. 
Westwood,  or,  for  that  matter,  against  some  one 
else.  Finally,  he  ventured  to  point  out  how  it  was 
scarcely  within  the  bounds  of  possibility  that  the 
murder  could  have  been  committed  by  any  one  ex- 
cept the  prisoner.  He  trusted,  however,  that  the 
jury  would  give  the  amplest  consideration  to  the 
points  upon  which  he  had  dwelt. 

The  result  of  this  summing  up  was  that  it  took 
the  jury  two  hours  and  a  half  instead  of  five  min- 
utes to  find  the  prisoner  guilty.  It  only  took  the 
judge  five  minutes  to  sentence  him,  however.;  but 
those  persons  who  had  been  looking  forward  to  so 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 103 

exciting  an  incident  as  an  execution,  with  a  black 
flag  hoisted  outside  the  gaol  to  stimulate  the 
imagination  in  regard  to  the  horror  that  was  being 
enacted  within,  were  disappointed,  for  the  Home 
Secretary  commuted  the  capital  sentence  to  one  of 
penal  servitude  for  life. 

The  man's  character  had  not  been  an  unblem- 
ished one.  Fifteen  years  before  he  had  suffered 
eighteen  months'  imprisonment  for  fraud  in  con- 
nection with  the  floating  of  a  company — a  transac- 
tion into  which  it  seems  scarcely  possible  for  fraud 
to  enter — but  since  his  return  he  appeared  to  have 
supported  himself  honorably  at  Midleigh.  He  had 
worked  himself  up  to  a  position  of  trust  at  the  great 
Midleigh  brewery,  and  it  was  said  that  in  addition 
to  the  few  hundreds  which  remained  to  his  credit  in 
Westwoods'  bank,  he  had  saved  some  thousands  of 
pounds.  It  appeared,  however,  that  what  he  had 
said  in  Dick  Westwood's  drawing-room  about  hav- 
ing a  wife  and  child,  was  untrue,  for  certainly  no 
no  one  claiming  to  be  his  wife  had  come  forward 
during  the  trial. 

Thus,  within  three  weeks  of  the  tragedy  at  the 
Court,  the  people  of  Brackenhurst  had  begun  to  talk 
of  other  matters — during  a  fortnight  no  other  topic 
was  possible  in  the  town.  After  Mr.  Westwood's 
death  there  was  no  run  on  the  bank:  but  even  if 
there  had  been,  plenty  of  gold  would  have  been 
forthcoming  to  meet  all  demands.  It  was  then  that 


104  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 

the  people  began  to  discuss  the  probability  of  Mr. 
Westwood's  having  died  a  wealthy  man,  and  the 
likelihood  of  his  having  made  a  will.  They  feared 
that  Claude  Westwood  would  not  find  himself  better 
provided  for  than  he  had  been  at  his  father's  death; 
for  they  took  it  for  granted  that  his  brother  would 
have  made  his  will  on  the  assumption — the  very 
reasonable  assumption — that  he  was  no  longer  alive. 
It  did  not  take  long  to  satisfy  the  curiosity  of  the 
neighbourhood  on  all  these  points.  Richard  West- 
wood's  lawyer  produced  in  due  course  a  will  which 
the  former  had  made  the  year  before,  and  it  became 
plain  from  this  document  that  the  testator  was  a 
wealthy  man — that  is  to  say,  wealthy  from  the 
standpoint  of  Brackenshire;  though,  of  course,  in 
the  estimation  of  Lancashire  or  Chicago  the  sums 
which  he  bequeathed  represented  a  competency 
only  one  degree  removed  from  absolute  penury. 
Something  like  two  hundred  thousand  pounds  were 
distributed  in  the  will,  but  the  distribution  was 
made  on  the  simplest  principle.  After  a  few  lega- 
cies of  an  unimportant  character  to  some  cousins, 
his  clerks  and  servants,  Richard  Westwood  left  all 
his  property  in  trust  for  his  brother  Claude,  should 
the  said  Claude  be  found  to  be  alive  within  five 
years  from  the  date  of  the  will.  But  should  no 
proof  be  forthcoming  that  he  was  alive  within  that 
period,  everything  was  to  go  to  Agnes  Louise  Mow- 
bray,  of  The  Knoll,  for  her  absolute  use. 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 105 

People  opened  their  eyes  when  they  became  ac- 
quainted with  the  provisions  of  the  will.  So  many 
years  had  passed  since  the  departure  of  Claude 
Westwood,  it  was  quite  forgotten,  except  by  a  few 
persons,  that  there  was  a  woman  awaiting  his  re- 
turn. 

There  were  some  people,  however,  who  said  that 
the  character  of  Richard  Westwood's  will  proved 
that  he  had  been  in.  love  with  Miss  Mowbray. 
They  never  failed  to  add  that  they  had  suspected  it 
all  along. 


CHAPTER  X. 

CYRIL  MOWBRAY  did  not  seem  to  feel  quite  as  jubi- 
lant as  he  might  have  done,  when  it  was  proved 
beyond  the  possibility  of  doubt,  that  Claude  was 
alive.  The  income  that  would  be  his  when  he 
reached  the  age  of  twenty-five  was  a  small  one, 
and  quite  insufficient  to  allow  of  his  keeping  three 
hunters  and  driving  a  coach,  to  say  nothing  of  that 
two-hundred-ton  yacht  upon  which  he  had  set  his 
heart. 

He  considered  that  he  was,  on  the  whole,  very 
hardly  dealt  with  by  Fate,  for  he  felt  convinced  that 
he  was  meant  by  Nature  to  be  a  country  gentleman 
in  affluent  circumstances  and  without  need  to  take 
thought  for  all  the  unlet  farms  that  might  be  on  his 
property.  He  considered  it  especially  hard  that  he 
should  be  cheated  out  of  his  money— that  was  how 
he  put  it — by  the  reappearance  of  Claude.  He  had 
great  confidence  in  his  own  ability  to  persuade  his 
sister  to  part  with  her  money.  To  whom  should 
she  give  her  money  if  not  to  her  own  brother,  he 
inquired  of  such  persons  as  he  took  into  his  confi- 
dence on  the  subject  of  his  grievances. 

His  confidence  in  his  capacity  to  get  his  sister's 
money  into  his  possession  was  but  too  well- 
founded.  During  the  year  of  idleness  that  followed 

106 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 107 

his  being  sent  down  from  the  University,  he  had 
been  a  terrible  burden  to  Agnes,  for  it  was  in  vain 
that  she  pleaded  with  him  to  seek  to  qualify  himself 
for  some  employment  in  which  a  University  degree 
was  not  necessary ;  he  refused  to  listen  to  her,  say- 
ing that  he  was  fit  for  nothing  but  the  life  of  a 
country  gentleman. 

That  was  certainly  the  life  which  he  had  led  for  a 
year,  at  his  sister's  expense.  He  was  a  great  burden 
to  her,  but  she  was  extremely  fond  of  him,  and  she 
was  a  woman. 

Lizzie  Dangan  had  left  the  neighbourhood  with- 
out revealing  to  any  one  the  fact  that  she  had  had  a 
secret  interview  with  Mr.  Westwood  within  twenty 
yards  of  where  his  body  had  been  found  in  the 
morning,  and  also  without  being  reconciled  to  her 
father,  the  gamekeeper,  though  Agnes  made  an  at- 
tempt to  get  the  man  to  forgive  his  daughter  for  her 
lapse.  The  man  had  always  been  a  strict  father, 
giving  his  children  an  excellent  education,  and  in- 
sisting on  their  going  to  church  with  praiseworthy 
regularity.  It  was  therefore  mortifying  for  him  to 
find  that  his  two  sons  had  enlisted  in  a  cavalry  regi- 
ment and  that  his  one  daughter  had  neglected  the 
excellent  precepts  of  life  which  he  had  taught  her 
by  the  aid  of  a  birch  rod. 

It  was  probably  the  sense  of  his  own  failure  in 
regard  to  his  children  that  made  him  refuse  to  be 
reconciled  to  Lizzie.  He  had  shown  himself  all  his 


io8  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 


life  to  be  a  hard  and  morose  man,  discharging  his 
duties  with  rigid  exactness,  and  being  quite  intoler- 
ant of  the  lapses  of  the  people  about  him.  After 
the  death  of  Mr.  Westwood  and  the  departure  of 
his  daughter,  he  became  more  morose  than  ever, 
scarcely  speaking  to  any  one  on  the  estate,  and 
rarely  leaving  the  precincts  of  the  park.  Some  of 
the  servants  said  that,  after  all,  he  had  been  at- 
tached to  Mr.  Westwood,  but  others  said  that  he 
was  grieving  because  Lizzie  had  not  been  allowed 
to  starve  to  death  in  expiation  of  her  fault.  He  had 
more  than  once  said  that  he  hoped  he  would  see 
her  in  her  coffin  for  bringing  shame  upon  his  house, 
but  until  she  was  lying  in  her  coffin  he  would  not 
have  her  brought  before  him. 

It  was  after  her  departure  that  Cyril  began  to  feel 
a  trifle  lonely.  He  missed  his  stolen  interviews 
with  the  girl,  and  above  all  he  missed  the  sense  of 
being  engaged  in  an  intrigue  that  was  attended 
with  the  greatest  risk,  and  which  he  flattered  him- 
self had  been  carried  on  without  awaking  the  sus- 
picions of  any  one,  except  his  too  considerate 
friend,  Dick  Westwood.  Even  the  excitement  of 
the  trial  and  the  consciousness  of  being  a  person  of 
the  greatest  importance  in  connection  with  the  case 
for  the  Crown,  failed  to  compensate  him  for  the 
absence  of  Lizzie,  especially  as,  within  a  week  after 
the  conviction  of  Standish,  the  Crown  no  longer  re- 
garded him  as  a  person  of  distinction.  To  be  the 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL log 

chief  witness  for  the  Crown  had  seemed  in  his  eyes 
pretty  much  the  same  thing  as  to  be  on  speaking 
terms  with  Royalty;  and  when  he  found  himself, 
after  he  had  served  the  purposes  of  the  prosecution, 
cast  aside  in  favour  of  a  farm  labourer,  who  became 
the  hero  of  the  moment  because  he  had  detected  a 
man  loitering  in  the  neighbourhood  of  certain  hay 
ricks  that  had  been  burnt  down,  he  was  ready  to 
indulge  in  many  philosophical  reflections  upon  the 
fickleness  of  Royalty.  He  felt  like  the  discarded 
favourite  of  a  Prince. 

Thus  it  was  that  he  became  an  intolerable  burden 
to  his  sister,  and  the  subject  of  unfavourable  pre- 
dictions uttered  by  the  most  far-seeing  people  of 
the  neighbourhood,  although  his  worst  enemies 
could  not  say  that  he  was  not  improving  at  bil- 
liards. It  was  universally  admitted  that  he  was 
making  satisfactory  progress  in  the  study  of  this 
fascinating  game;  a  fact  which  shows  that  if  one 
only  practises  for  six  hours  a  day  at  anything,  one 
will,  eventually,  become  proficient  at  it. 

To  say,  however,  that  he  was  satisfied  with  his 
life  and  its  prospects  at  this  period  would  be  im- 
possible. As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  was  as  much  dis- 
satisfied with  himself  as  his  friends  were.  He  had 
been  heard  once  or  twice  to  say  something  about 
enlisting. 

It  was  just  when  he  was  actually  considering  if, 
in  view  of  his  failure  to  realise  the  simplest  aspira- 


no  WELL,  AFTER  ALL- 


tions  of  a  country  gentleman,  it  might  not  be  well 
for  him  to  take  the  Queen's  shilling,  that  he  met 
Sir  Percival  Hope  on  the  road  to  Brackenhurst. 

It  seemed  to  him  that  Sir  Percival  had  a  lecture- 
reading  expression  on  his  face,  and  he  quickened 
his  pace  with  a  view  of  passing  him  with  a  nod. 
But  he  was  mistaken;  first,  in  fancying  that  Sir 
Percival  had  so  narrow  a  knowledge  of  the  world 
as  to  think  that  lecture-reading  was  ever  known  to 
act  as  a  brake  upon  any  youth  who  had  made  up 
his  mind  to  go  to  the  bad;  and  secondly,  in  fancy- 
ing that  if  such  a  man  as  Sir  Percival  Hope  had 
made  up  his  mind  to  speak  to  him,  either  with  the 
intention  of  reading  him  a  lecture  or  with  any  other 
aim,  he  would  be  able  to  pass  him  with  only  a  nod 
of  recognition. 

Sir  Percival  stopped  him. 

"Look  here,  Mowbray,"  he  said,  "you're  a  man 
of  the  world,  and  you  know  all  the  people  about 
here  far  better  than  I  do.  You  see  they  freeze  up 
when  I  want  them  to  talk  freely  to  me.  I  haven't 
the  way  of  drawing  them  out  that  you  have." 

Cyril  fairly  blushed  at  these  compliments;  they 
were  delivered  in  so  casual  a  tone  as  to  seem  every- 
day truths  that  no  one  would  dream  of  contradicting. 

Cyril  did  not  dream  of  contradicting  them,  though 
he  did  blush.  He  merely  murmured  that  he  sup- 
posed chaps  would  sooner  give  themselves  away  to 
him  than  to  Sir  Percival. 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL in 

"Of  course  they  would,"  acquiesced  the  elder 
man.  "That  is  why  1  am  glad  to  have  met  you. 
The  fact  is,  that  my  chief  overseer  at  Tarragonda 
Creek — that's  one  of  my  sheep  stations  in  New 
South  Wales — has  written  to  me  to  send  him  out  a 
young  chap  who  would  act  as  his  assistant  for  a 
while — a  chap  whom  he  could  eventually  place  in 
charge  of  one  of  the  farms.  Now  why  on  earth  he 
should  bother  me  with  this  business  I  don't  know, 
only  that  O'Gorman — that's  the  overseer — has  a 
mortal  hatred  of  the  native-born  Australian :  he  fan- 
cies that  he  knows  too  much.  I  was  about  to 
write  to  him  to  say  that  he  must  manage  without 
me,  when  it  occurred  to  me  that  you  might  be  able 
to  help  me.  What  O'Gorman  wants  is  a  young 
fellow  who  is  first  and  foremost  a  gentleman — a 
fellow  who  knows  what  a  horse  is  and  does  not 
object  to  be  in  the  saddle  all  day.  If  you  hear  of 
any  one  who  you  think  would  suit  such  a  billet,  I 
wish  you  would  let  me  know — only  remember,  Mr. 
O'Gorman  is  a  great  believer  in  gentlemen  for  such 
posts:  he  won't  have  anything  to  do  with  stable 
hands  who  think  to  better  themselves  in  a  colony." 

"Look  here,  Sir  Percival,"  cried  Cyril,  after  only 
a  short  pause,  "  I'm  dead  tired  of  life  in  this  neigh- 
bourhood. I  can  hear  people  say,  the  moment  my 
back  is  turned,  that  I'm  going  straight  to  the  devil, 
and  I  can't  contradict  them.  I  am  going  to  the 
devil  simply  because  I  thought  I  was  good  for  noth- 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL- 


ing  but  loafing  about  billiard-rooms.  You  don't 
know,  Sir  Percival,  how  far  I  have  gone  in  that  di- 
rection. Only  one  person  knows  what  I  am  guilty 
of.  But  I  haven't  had  a  chance;  and  if  you  only 
give  me  one,  you'll  see  if  1  don't  take  it." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you'd  take  the  situa- 
tion yourself  ?"  asked  Sir  Percival,  as  if  the  idea  had 
been  sprung  upon  him. 

"I  see  by  the  way  you  ask  me  that  you  think  I'm 
a  conceited  cub,"  said  Cyril.  ''But  I'm  not  con- 
ceited, and — look  here,  Sir  Percival,  give  me  this 
chance  and  it  will  mean  the  saving  of  me.  You'll  not 
regret  it.  I  was  just  thinking  as  I  came  along  here 
this  evening,  that  there's  nothing  left  for  me  except 
to  enlist,  and  by  the  Lord  Harry,  if  you  won't  take 
me  I  will  enlist  if  only  to  get  away  from  this  place." 

"My  dear  boy,  you  needn't  hold  that  pistol  to  my 
head,"  said  Sir  Percival. 

"A  pistol— what  pistol?"  said  Cyril,  in  a  low 
tone,  taking  a  step  or  two  back  and  staring  at  Sir 
Percival. 

"Why,  that  threat  of  enlisting.  Why  need  you 
threaten  me  with  that  ?  I'll  give  you  the  chance 
you  ask  for  without  any  intimidation.  Heavens! 
If  you  only  knew  the  relief  that  it  is  to  me  to  be 
able  to  tell  O'Gorman  that  I  have  got  a  man  for 
him.  Oh,  you  and  he  will  get  on  all  right.  Of 
course  you'll  do  just  what  he  tells  you,  or  you'll  get 
your  passage  paid  home  by  the  next  steamer." 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 


"Sir  Percival,"  faltered  Cyril,  "you've  saved 
me." 

And  then,  man  of  the  world  though  he  was,  he 
burst  into  tears,  and  hurried  away,  leaving  Sir  Per- 
cival standing  alone  on  the  roadside  extremely  grati- 
fied by  the  reflection  that  once  more  he  had  been 
right  in  the  estimate  he  had  formed  of  a  man's 
character,  though  all  the  people  whom  he  had  met 
had  differed  from  him.  It  was  this  capacity  to 
judge  of  men's  characters  without  being  guided  by 
the  opinions  formed  —  and  expressed  —  by  others, 
that  had  made  him  a  rich  man  while  others  had 
remained  poor.  He  had  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  Cyril  was  not  in  reality  a  mauvais  sujet,  or 
what  is  known  in  England  as  a  bad  egg.  The 
philosophy  of  Sir  Percival's  life  was  comprised 
within  these  lines: 

"  Satan  finds  some  mischief  still 
For  idle  hands  to  do." 

He  rather  guessed  that  he  could  outwit  Satan  if  he 
only  set  about  trying  to  do  it. 

Thus  it  was  that  Agnes  had  to  express  her  grati- 
tude once  again  to  Sir  Percival  Hope,  and  thus  their 
friendship  became  consolidated. 

Not  once  did  Cyril  put  in  an  appearance  at  a 
billiard-room  at  Brackenhurst  during  the  week  that 
followed  his  interval  with  Sir  Percival.  He  had  no 
time  for  billiards,  the  fact  being  that  he  was  made 


H4  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 


to  understand  that  he  must  be  on  his  way  to  Aus- 
tralia by  the  steamer  leaving  England  in  ten  days. 
For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  felt  it  incumbent  on 
him  to  rouse  himself.  He  went  up  with  Sir  Per- 
cival  to  London  to  procure  himself  an  outfit;  and 
though  it  was  something  of  a  disappointment  to  him 
to  learn  that  he  was  not  to  appear  in  top  boots  and 
a  "picture  hat,"  after  a  model  made  by  a  milliner 
in  Bond  Street,  and  worn  by  a  South  African  trooper 
— he  should  have  dearly  liked  to  walk  for  the  last 
time  through  the  streets  of  Brackenhurst  in  this 
picturesque  attire — still  he  bore  his  disappointment 
with  resignation,  and  packed  up  his  flannel  shirts 
with  a  light  heart.  He  wrote  a  letter  to  Lizzie 
Dangan  on  the  eve  of  his  departure,  and  only  posted 
it  at  Liverpool  half  an  hour  before  he  embarked  for 
his  new  home. 

It  was  when  he  was  beginning  to  feel,  as  the 
waves  of  the  Channel  were  causing  the  big  steamer 
some  uneasiness,  that,  after  all,  he  would  not  look 
on  the  acquisition  of  a  yacht  as  an  essential  to  his 
scheme  of  enjoying  life  when  he  had  become  a 
millionaire,  that  his  sister  Agnes  was  waited  on  by 
Dick  Westwood's  solicitor. 

She  had  scarcely  dried  the  tears  which  she  had 
shed  on  thinking  that  her  brother  would  be  by  this 
time  at  sea,  for  the  reflection  that  even  a  reprobate 
brother  is  at  sea  will  make  a  kind-hearted  sister 
weep;  and  she  did  not  feel  much  inclined  to  have 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 115 

an  interview  which  she  feared  would  be  a  business 
one. 

She  soon  found,  however,  that  the  solicitor  had 
not  come  strictly  on  a  matter  of  business. 

"I  bring  you  a  letter  which  is  addressed  to  my 
late  client,  Mr.  Westwood,"  said  he.  "In  the  or- 
dinary way  of  business,  I  have,  of  course,  opened 
the  few  letters  that  have  been  addressed  to  him  by 
persons  whom  the  news  of  his  death  had  not  time 
to  reach,  but  in  this  particular  case  I  have  brought 
the  letter  to  you." 

He  handed  her  an  envelope  which  was  in  such  a 
condition  as  to  suggest  that  it  had  been  lying  for  a 
wet  day  or  two  in  the  roadway  at  Charing  Cross  or 
some  thoroughfare  equally  well  frequented,  and  that 
afterwards  some  one  had  dropped  it  by  mistake  into 
one  of  the  iron  dust-bins  instead  of  a  pillar-box.  It 
was  soiled  and  dilapidated  to  such  an  extent  as  made 
Agnes  uncertain  on  which  side  the  address  was 
written.  But  she  was  able  to  read  on  a  corner  that 
had  been  scraped,  the  one  postmark  "Zanzibar." 

The  letter  dropped  from  her  hand. 

"The  pity  of  it — ah,  the  pity  of  it!  "  she  cried. 

"I  will  leave  it  with  you,  Miss  Mowbray,"  said 
the  lawyer,  rising.  "I  think  that  it  is  into  your 
hands  it  should  be  put.  You  will  read  it  at  your 
leisure,  and  if  it  contains  any  matter  upon  which 
you  think  I  should  be  informed,  you  will  be  good 
enough  to  communicate  with  me." 


CHAPTER  XI. 

FOR  some  time  after  the  lawyer  had  left  the 
house,  the  letter  lay  unheeded  at  Agnes's  feet.  She 
could  only  say  to  herself,  "The  pity  of  it!  The 
pity  of  it!"  as  her  eyes  overflowed  with  tears.  It 
seemed  very  pitiful  to  her  to  see  lying  there  the 
letter  which  the  man  to  whom  it  was  addressed 
would  never  see.  She  thought  of  the  gladness 
which  receiving  that  letter  would  have  brought 
into  the  life  that  had  passed  away.  Not  for  a 
single  moment  did  she  feel  jealous  because  it  had 
arrived  in  England  unaccompanied  by  any  letter 
to  herself.  She  felt  that  it  was  fitting  that  the 
first  letter  written  by  Claude  since  his  return  to 
civilisation — such  civilisation  as  was  represented 
by  the  sending  and  receiving  of  letters — should  be 
to  the  brother  whom  he  loved  so  well. 

It  was  some  time  before  she  could  take  it  up  and 
open  the  cover.  When  at  last  she  did  so,  standing 
at  the  window  leading  into  her  garden  to  catch  all 
the  light  that  remained  in  the  sky,  she  failed  to 
detect  any  but  the  most  distant  resemblance  in  the 
handwriting  to  Claude's,  as  she  had  known  it.  But 
as  she  read  the  first  words  her  tears  began  to  flow 
once  more,  and  she  could  only  press  the  letter  to 

11* 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 117 

her  lips  and  say,  "Thank  God,  thank  God,  for 
allowing  me  to  see  his  handwriting  once  more!  " 

The  letter  was  not  a  long  one.  The  writer  as- 
sumed that  his  brother  would  think  that  he  was 
reading  a  message  from  another  world.  "And  by 
Heaven  you  won't  be  so  far  wrong,  old  boy,"  he 
wrote,  "for  I  don't  suppose  any  human  being  ever 
went  so  near  as  I  did  to  the  border-line  of  that  un- 
discovered country  without  passing  over  into  the 
land  of  shadows." 

He  then  went  on  to  give  a  brief  sketch  of  the 
massacre  of  all  the  members  of  the  expedition  with 
the  exception  of  himself,  and  to  tell  how  he  had 
been  not  merely  held  in  captivity  by  the  strange 
tribes  whom  they  had  met,  but  promoted  to  the 
position  of  a  god  by  them,  owing  to  the  accident 
of  his  having  found  his  way  into  a  sacred  cave, 
after  taking  the  precaution  to  knock  out  the  brains 
of  the  two  witch  doctors  who  had  previously  killed 
every  native  who  had  attempted  to  enter.  The 
position  of  a  god  he  found  great  difficulty  in  living 
up  to,  he  said,  for  the  gods  of  that  nation  were 
carefully  guarded  lest  they  should  make  a  try  for 
the  liberty  of  an  ordinary  layman. 

In  short,  the  letter  gave  a  r£sum6  of  the  writer's 
terrible  hardships  when  living  as  the  captive  of 
one  of  the  most  barbarous  of  African  savage  tribes. 
For  nearly  eight  years  he  had  lived  as  a  savage, 
and  when  at  last  he  contrived  to  escape,  he  had 


n8  WELL,  AFTER  ALL- 


spent  another  six  months  wandering  from  forest 
to  forest  of  the  interior,  in  almost  a  naked  condi- 
tion, and  with  no  weapon  except  a  knife,  which 
had  once  belonged  to  Baines,  the  explorer,  and 
had  been  given  by  him  to  a  friendly  native  when 
painting  the  falls  of  the  Zambesi.  When  at  the 
point  of  starving  he  had  been  fortunate  enough  to 
come  in  contact  with  an  ivory  hunter  on  his  way 
to  Uganda,  where  they  had  arrived  together. 

"If  you  only  knew  the  difficulty  I  have  in  hold- 
ing a  pen  you  would  give  me  unlimited  praise  for 
writing  so  long  a  letter  instead  of  confounding  me 
— as  I  fear  you  will — for  being  so  brief.  The  chap 
who  takes  this  to  the  coast  for  me  will  not  fail  to 
make  as  much  as  he  can  out  of  my  story  for  trans- 
mission to  the  papers,  so  that  the  chances  are  that 
you  will  have  got  plenty  of  news  about  me  by  cable 
a  fortnight  or  so  before  you  get  this." 

The  writer  did  not  indulge  in  any  more  senti- 
mental passages  than  may  be  found  in  the  letter  of 
any  average  Englishman  who  writes  to  a  brother 
after  taking  part  in  a  campaign  in  a  distant  country, 
or  fighting  his  way  through  savages  in  the  hope  of 
opening  up  a  new  land  for  English  trade — and 
occasionally  German. 

Only  as  a  postscript  he  had  written : 

"I  often  wonder  what  you  are  like  now.  Of 
course  you  have  found  a  wife  who  adores  you,  and 
your  children  have  been  told  that  they  once  had  an 


\ 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 119 

uncle  who  went  out  to  Africa  and  was  killed  by 
men  with  black  on  their  faces,  and  if  they  aren't 
good  children  the  black  men  will  eat  them  up  too. 
Well,  now  you  will  have  to  untell  all  that  you  have 
told  those  innocent  little  ones,  if  they  exist;  and  I'm 
afraid  that  you'll  have  to  invent  another  path  to  vir- 
tue than  that  presided  over  by  the  black  men. 

"  By  the  way,  I  take  it  for  granted  that  Agnes 
Mowbray  has  followed  the  example  which  I  assume 
you  have  shown  her,  and  that  she  also  has  children 
round  her  knees.  What  strange  memories  the 
writing  of  names  awakens!  I  am  nearly  sure  that  I 
told  Agnes  Mowbray  that  I  loved  her— nay,  worse 
than  that,  I'm  nearly  sure  that  I  did  love  her.  Don't 
make  mischief,  old  man,  by  hinting  so  much  to  her 
husband.  I  may  see  her  when  I  get  back  to  Eng- 
land; but  I  shall  not  be  able  to  stir  from  here  for  at 
least  six  months.  You  can  have  no  idea  how  thor- 
oughly broken  down  I  am." 

Her  tears  did  not  flow  when  she  had  finished 
reading  the  letter,  written  in  that  curiously  cramped 
hand  that  scarcely  bore  any  resemblance  to  the  bold 
scrawl  which  ran  over  the  old  pages  of  his  letters 
that  she  treasured.  She  did  not  weep.  She  felt  a 
curious  little  sting  of  disappointment  as  she  read  the 
latter  part  of  the  postscript — a  curious  little  stab,  as 
with  the  point  of  a  sharp  needle. 

He  had  said  no  word  about  her  in  any  part  of  the 
letter:  he  had  made  no  allusion  to  her  until  he  had 


130  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 

that  afterthought  which  he  embodied  in  the  post- 
script, and  then  he  had  only  alluded  to  her  in  order 
that  he  might  express  a  doubt  in  regard  to  her  con- 
stancy. 

Yes ;  he  had  actually  taken  for  granted  that  she 
had  cast  to  the  winds  the  promise  which  she  had 
made  to  him — the  promise  to  love  him  and  him  only, 
and  to  wait  patiently  until  his  return  should  unite 
their  lives  for  evermore.  Did  it  seem  to  him  impos- 
sible that  any  woman  should  remain  faithful  to  one 
man  when  apart  from  him  ?  Was  it  possible  that 
he  knew  so  little  of  her  nature  as  to  fancy  that  the 
passing  of  years  would  weaken  her  faith  ?  What 
has  time  got  to  do  with  such  matters  as  love  and 
faith  ? 

For  a  moment  she  felt  that  sharp  stab,  but  then 
the  pain  that  it  caused  her  passed  away  in  the 
thought  of  the  rapture  which  could  not  fail  to  be  his 
when  he  became  aware  of  the  truth — of  her  truth, 
of  her  love,  of  her  faith  in  the  bounty  of  heaven. 
It  was  not  pride  in  her  own  fidelity  that  she  felt  at 
that  moment:  she  could  not  see  that  she  had  any 
reason  for  pride,  for  fidelity  was  so  much  a  part  of 
her  nature  she  had  ceased  to  think  of  it,  just  as  a 
man  with  a  sound  heart  never  gives  a  thought  to  his 
heart.  It  had  never  occurred  to  her  that  there  was 
anything  remarkable  in  the  fact  that  she  had  passed 
eight  years  of  her  life  waiting  for  the  return  of  the 
man  whom  all  the  world  believed  to  be  dead.  If 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 131 

she  had  been  waiting  for  double  the  time  she  would 
not  have  felt  any  cause  for  pride.  The  glow  which 
came  over  her,  making  her  forget  the  pain  that  she 
had  felt  on  reading  the  careless  words  of  her  lover's 
postscript,  was  due  to  the  thought  of  the  delight 
that  would  be  his  when  he  came  to  know  that  she 
had  never  a  thought  of  loving  any  one  save  himself. 

Would  it  seem  such  a  wonder  to  him  ?  Well,  let 
it  seem  a  miracle  to  him  so  long  as  it  gave  him 
pleasure.  If  she  had  been  overwhelmed  with  hap- 
piness at  the  miracle  of  his  restoration  to  her,  why 
should  he  not  be  overjoyed  at  the  miracle  of  her 
restoration  to  him  ? 

She  sat  for  a  long  time  at  the  open  window,  think- 
ing her  thoughts,  while  before  her  eyes  the  soft  vel- 
vety darkness  of  the  exquisite  July  night  slipped 
over  the  garden.  The  delicate  dew  scents  filled  the 
air,  and  the  perfume  of  the  roses  mingled  with  that 
of  the  jessamine  which  dropped  from  the  trellis- 
work  of  the  verandah.  The  drone  of  a  winged 
beetle  rising  and  falling  in  musical  monotone,  like 
the  sound  of  a  distant  bell  borne  by  a  fitful  breeze, 
came  to  her  ears.  A  bat  whirled  past  the  opening 
of  the  window,  and  the  cat  that  was  playing  after 
the  moths  on  the  lawn,  struck  out  at  it  for  a  mo- 
ment. And  then  a  servant  brought  lamps  into  the 
room. 

She  started  from  her  reverie,  and  became  aware 
in  an  instant  of  the  details  of  the  scene  before  her. 


122  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 

It  was  such  a  scene  as  had  been  before  her  many 
times  during  her  life.  How  often  had  she  not  sat 
there  in  the  early  night,  wondering  if  the  man  whom 
she  loved  would  ever  sit  by  her  side  again  in  the 
long  twilight  of  a  summer's  day  in  England — at 
home — at  home! 

And  now  she  thought  of  him  lying  alone  among 
the  strange  trees — the  mighty  broad-leaved  palms, 
the  enormous  ropes  of  the  trailing  plants  falling 
around  him.  Was  he  thinking  of  the  English  home 
which  he  had  forsaken,  but  which  was  waiting  for 
him  ?  How  often  had  not  he  found  comfort  in  the 
midst  of  his  desolation  through  picturing  the  garden 
at  The  Knoll,  as  he  had  walked  in  it  on  those  sum- 
mer nights  long  ago  ? 

Alas!  alas!  With  his  thoughts  of  the  old  garden 
and  the  old  times  there  must  have  come  that  terrible 
thought  which  he  had  hinted  at  in  his  letter — the 
thought  that  she  had  been  unfaithful  to  him.  Ah, 
how  could  he  ever  have  had  such  a  thought  ?  She 
had  heard  of  fickle  women — loving  a  man  passion- 
ately one  day,  and  the  next  carried  away  by  the 
glamour  of  a  new  face  and  a  changed  voice — but 
how  could  he  fancy  for  a  moment  that  she  was  such 
a  woman  ? 

Thus  she  sat,  with  her  thoughts  and  her  memories 
and  her  anticipations,  until  the  full  moon  had  arisen 
behind  the  trees  of  Westwood  Court  and  was  flood- 
ing the  sky  with  light  and  sending  the  great  shad- 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 


ows  of  the  elm  far  over  the  lawn.  When  the  sound 
of  the  striking  of  the  church  clock  roused  her  from 
her  reverie,  she  was  conscious  of  one  thought:  that 
the  pang  that  must  have  been  his  when  he  wrote 
that  postscript  would  soon  pass  away  in  the  joy  of 
knowing  that  she  had  been  true  to  him. 

But  it  was  a  long  time  before  she  went  to  sleep 
that  night. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

IT  had  fallen  to  her  lot  to  write  to  Claude  West- 
wood  the  letter  which  told  him  of  the  death  of  the 
brother  to  whom  he  had  all  his  life  been  devoted. 
She  knew  that  a  telegraphic  message  had  been  sent 
to  the  Consul  at  Zanzibar  respecting  the  death  of 
Richard  Westwood,  the  day  after  the  news  of  the 
safety  of  Claude  had  reached  England,  so  that  he 
would  not  receive  the  first  shock  of  the  terrible 
news  from  her.  She  had  done  her  best  in  her  letter 
to  comfort  him — indeed,  every  word  that  it  con- 
tained was  designed  to  be  a  consolation  to  him. 
Why,  the  very  sight  of  her  writing  would  make 
him  feel  that  his  grief  was  shared  by  at  least  one 
friend. 

T^c  letter  had  not,  of  course,  been  written  in  the 
stiain  of  the  letters  which  she  had  sent  to  him  dur- 
ing the  first  few  months  after  his  arrival  in  Africa. 
(Some  of  them  had  been  returned  to  her  from 
Zanzibar  with  the  inscription  "Not  found"  on  the 
covers.)  She  thought  that  any  of  the  rapturous 
phrases,  which  could  give  but  very  inadequate  ex- 
pression to  what  was  in  her  heart,  would  be  out  of 
place  in  a  letter  that  she  meant  to  be  expressive  only 
of  the  deep  sympathy  she  felt  for  him. 

But  the  following  week  she  had  written  to  him 
124 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 125 

something  of  what  was  in  her  heart.  She  had 
taken  up  once  more  the  strain  of  that  correspond- 
ence which  had  been  so  rudely  interrupted,  and  had 
wondered  to  find  how  easily  the  unaccustomed 
words  of  endearment  slipped  from  her  pen.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  her  love  had  been  accumulating 
in  her  heart  through  all  the  years  of  her  enforced 
silence,  for  she  had  never  before  written  to  him 
such  phrases  of  affection.  When  she  had  written 
that  letter  she  had  a  sense  of  relief  beyond  expres- 
sion. The  pent-up  flood  had  at  last  found  a  vent. 
She  gave  a  great  sigh  as  she  signed,  not  her  own 
name,  but  the  pet  name  which  he  had  given  her — a 
great  sigh,  and  then  a  laugh  of  delight. 

But  then  she  caught  sight  of  herself  in  the  look- 
ing-glass that  hung  above  her  escritoire.  It  seemed 
to  her  that  all  her  hair  had  become  grey — that  her 
face  had  become  all  scarred  with  lines.  She  closed 
her  eyes  and  had  a  vision  of  the  slender  girl  to 
whom  that  love-name  had  been  given.  She  had  a 
vision  of  the  sparkling  eyes,  the  brown  hair  flung 
back  when  one  long  shining  strand  had  escaped 
from  the  knot  in  which  it  had  been  tied,  and  fell 
down  from  her  shoulder.  She  could  see  his  eyes  as 
he  turned  them  upon  her,  when  he  had  kissed  and 
kissed  that  wonderful  rivulet  of  hair,  calling  her  by 
that  love-name. 

And  now.     .     .     . 

Ah,  she  was  no  longer  a  girl!    The  pet  name 


126  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 


which  she  had  written  so  lightly  no  longer  sat 
lightly  upon  her.  Would  not  people  think  it  gro- 
tesque for  a  woman  past  thirty  to  call  herself  by  the 
name  that  had  once  seemed  so  charmingly  appro- 
priate when  applied  to  a  girl  of  twenty-three  with 
a  rivulet  of  golden  brown  hair  flowing  over  her 
shoulders  to  meet  a  lover's  kisses  ? 

But  then  she  recollected  the  story  she  had  heard 
of  the  true  lover  who  loved  so  well  that  the  gods 
had  given  to  him  the  greatest  gift  in  their  power — 
the  gift  of  blindness,  so  that  at  the  end  of  forty 
years  when  he  and  the  woman  he  loved  had  grown 
old  together,  she  still  seemed  to  him  the  girl  she  had 
been  on  the  first  day  that  he  had  seen  and  loved  her. 

There  would  be  nothing  grotesque  in  that  lover 
calling  his  wife  by  the  love-name  of  her~7outh. 
But  would  such  love  blindness  be  given  to  Claude, 
so  that  he  should  still  think  of  her  as  the  slim  girl 
with  the  loose  hair  ? 

Alas !  Alas !  He  might  tolerate  the  letter  signed 
as  she  had  signed  it,  but  in  a  few  months  he  would 
be  face  to  face  with  her,  and  would  he  not  see  that 
she  was  no  longer  a  girl  ? 

Only  for  a  moment  she  paused  as  that  melancholy 
question  passed  through  her  mind.  Then  she  flung 
down  the  letter,  crying: 

"I  will  trust  him.  I  will  trust  him  as  I  have 
trusted  him  hitherto.  He  will  love  me  better,  better, 
better,  seeing  that  it  was  the  years  of  waiting  for 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 127 

him  that  gave  me  the  grey  hairs  where  only  brown 
had  been." 

It  never  occurred  to  her  to  ask  herself  if  it  was 
not  possible  that  the  years  which  had  given  her 
half  a  dozen  grey  hairs,  had  brought  about  quite  as 
great  a  change  in  her  lover.  It  never  occurred  to 
her  to  think  that  there  was  a  possibility  that  the 
years  spent  among  savages — wandering  through  the 
forests  where  malaria  lurked — starving  at  times  and 
in  peril  of  beasts  and  reptiles  and  lightning  and  sun- 
stroke every  day  of  his  life,  had  changed  him  in  some 
measure — even  in  as  great  a  measure  as  the  years  of 
watching  and  waiting  had  altered  her. 

His  portrait  stood  by  her  side  day  and  night. 
Every  day  and  every  night  she  had  kissed  that  pic- 
ture of  the  young  cavalry  officer  that  smiled  out  at 
her  from  the  frame.  That  was  the  portrait  of  her 
lover,  and  never  for  a  moment  did  she  think  of  him 
as  otherwise  than  that  portrait  revealed  him  to  her. 

So  she  had  posted  the  first  of  her  new  series  of 
love-letters  to  him  with  no  great  heaviness  of  heart; 
and  then  there  began  for  her  a  fresh  period  of  wait- 
ing; for  she  knew  that  some  months  must  elapse 
before  her  letters  could  reach  him,  and  after  that  an 
equal  space  before  she  could  receive  his  reply. 

But  the  barley  crop  had  only  been  reaped  in  the 
golden  fields  of  Brackenshire  when  Mr.  Westwood's 
lawyer  brought  her  a  telegram  which  he  had  just 
received  from  Zanzibar.  It  was  not  from  Claude, 


128  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 

but  from  a  doctor  whose  name  she  frequently  heard 
in  connection  with  the  exploration  of  Africa. 

"Westwood  arrived  here  to-day  from  Uganda, 
overcome  with  fatigue,  not  serious.  Leaves  for 
England,  probably  fortnight." 

So  the  telegram  ran,  and  her  heart  leapt  up,  for 
she  knew  that  her  days  of  waiting  were  being  short- 
ened. He  had  doubtless  received  no  news  of  his 
brother's  death  when  at  Uganda,  and  although  he 
had  intended  to  remain  there  until  he  should  be  fully 
restored  to  health,  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  re- 
turn at  once  to  England.  But  what  had  caused  her 
heart  to  leap  up  was  the  sudden  thought  that  came 
to  her: 

"  He  has  received  my  letter,  and  he  knows  that 
I  am  true  to  him." 

A  moment  afterwards  she  recollected  that  it  would 
have  been  impossible  for  him  to  receive  a  letter  from 
her — even  her  first  letter — while  he  was  still  at 
Uganda.  He  had  started  for  the  coast  immediately 
on  getting  the  news  by  telegraph  of  the  death  of  his 
brother,  and  both  her  letters,  being  addressed  to  him 
at  Uganda,  had,  it  was  almost  certain,  crossed  him 
on  the  road  to  the  coast. 

Still,  her  days  of  waiting  would  be  shortened,  and 
that  thought  gladdened  her.  Only  for  a  week  was 
she  left  in  the  torture  of  the  apprehension  that  the 
journey  to  the  coast  might  have  proved  too  much 
for  him,  and  that  he  might  die  at  Zanzibar.  All  the 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 129 

accounts  that  had  been  published  in  the  newspapers 
regarding  him  had  dwelt  upon  the  necessity  there 
was  for  him  to  remain  at  Uganda  until  he  had  in 
some  measure  recovered  from  the  effects  of  his  ter- 
rible experiences;  so  that  she  felt  she  had  grave  rea- 
son to  be  apprehensive  for  him. 

The  newspapers  shared  her  anxiety  not  only  in 
telegraphic  despatches  from  Zanzibar,  which  in- 
volved the  expenditure  of  large  sums,  but  also  in 
leaders  and  leaderettes,  which  like  George  Herbert's 
"good  words,"  were  "  worth  much  and  cost  little." 

At  first  the  news  came  that  the  explorer  whose 
name  was  in  every  one's  mouth,  was  completely 
prostrated  by  his  journey;  but  soon  the  gratifying 
intelligence  was  received  that  he  was  making  a  good 
recovery,  and  had  gone  for  a  week's  excursion  in  a 
gunboat  that  had  been  placed  at  his  disposal  until 
the  mail  steamer  should  be  leaving  Zanzibar. 

It  was  thought  advisable  by  his  physician  to  put 
some  miles  of  green  sea  between  Claude  Westwood 
and  the  scores  of  enterprising  gentlemen  who  were 
anxious  to  see  him.  The  newspaper  men  were  po- 
lite but  urgent;  the  English  publisher's  agent  was 
business-like  and  impressive;  these  gentlemen  were 
not  so  greatly  dreaded  by  the  doctor,  though  he 
would  have  liked  to  be  summoned  to  take  a  part, 
however  humble,  in  a  post-mortem  examination  on 
each  of  them.  But  when  it  came  to  his  knowledge 
that  the  American  lecture-bureau  agent  had  bought 


i^o  WELL,  AFTER  ALL — <• 

the  house  next  to  the  Consulate,  and  was  reported 
to  be  making  a  subterranean  passage  between  the 
two  so  as  to  give  him  an  opportunity  of  an  interview 
with  Mr.  Westwood,  the  doctor  thought  it  time  to 
make  representations  to  the  commander  of  the  gun- 
boat. 

Mr.  Westwood  was  smuggled  aboard  the  vessel 
at  midnight,  the  anchor  was  weighed  as  unosten- 
taciously  as  possible,  and  the  gunboat  steamed  out 
of  the  harbour  at  dawn;  but  it  was  said  that  the 
commander  had  to  bring  his  two  big  guns  to  bear 
upon  a  steam  launch  hastily  chartered  by  the  lecture 
agent  to  follow  the  vessel  in  order  that  he  might 
board  her  and  get  the  explorer  to  sign  an  agreement 
for  a  hundred  lectures  in  the  States  during  the  forth- 
coming fall. 

Then  came  the  news  that  Mr.  Westwood  had  re- 
turned to  Zanzibar  so  greatly  improved  in  health  by 
his  cruise  that  he  would  be  permitted  to  make  the 
voyage  to  England  by  the  next  mail;  and,  of  course, 
all  the  correspondents,  the  publishers'  agents  and 
lecture  agents  hastened  to  engage  cabins  on  the  same 
steamer.  The  briefest  of  telegrams  announced  the 
departure  of  the  steamer  in  due  course,  and  Agnes 
found  herself  able  to  breathe  again.  In  less  than  a 
month  he  would  be  by  her  side. 

It  was  very  generally  felt  among  those  hostesses 
in  Mayfair  who  are  the  most  earnest  of  lion-hunters, 
that  Mr.  Westwood  was  guilty  of  a  gross  breach  of 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 131 

manners  in  not  timing  his  arrival  for  the  spring  of 
the  London  season.  Some  of  the  more  enterprising 
of  them  had  long  ago  sent  out  cards  of  invitation 
to  him  at  Uganda,  for  receptions  to  be  held  in  the 
spring.  Others  had  given  him  a  choice  of  dates, 
and  left  it  optional  for  him  to  have  a  dinner,  an  at- 
home,  or  a  garden-party.  In  these  circumstances 
it  was  thought  that  in  changing  his  plans,  starting 
from  Uganda  at  once  instead  of  remaining  there,  as 
he  had  at  first  intended,  for  six  months,  he  was  be- 
having very  badly. 

How  could  any  man  expect  to  be  treated  as  a 
hero  in  the  month  of  October  ?  they  asked,  as  they 
felt  that  the  honour  and  glory  which  attaches  to  the 
exhibition  of  lions  were  slipping  from  their  fingers. 

They  had  long  ago  forgotten  that  the  same  news- 
papers which  had  announced  the  safety  of  Claude 
Westwood  had  contained  that  heading,  "The 
Brackenshire  Tragedy " ;  and  when  it  was  an- 
nounced that  Mr.  Westwood  was  compelled  to  de- 
cline all  engagements,  as  it  was  his  intention  to  re- 
main in  the  seclusion  of  Westwood  Court  for 
several  months,  people  shrugged  their  shoulders, 
and  went  on  with  their  pheasant  shooting. 

They  said  that  Mr.  Westwood  would  find  out  the 
mistake  he  was  making  before  the  next  season; 
adding  that  their  memories  were  quite  equal  to  re- 
calling instances  of  heroes,  who  were  looked  on  as 
such  in  the  autumn,  becoming  stale  and  of  no 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 


market  value  whatever  before  the  next  London 
season. 

They  rather  feared  that  Mr.  Westwood  had  failed 
to  remember  that  the  most  evanescent  form  of  hero- 
ism is  that  which  is  the  result  of  African  exploration. 
Africa  as  a  field  for  the  development  of  heroes  was 
getting  used  up;  the  Arctic  regions  were  already 
running  it  close,  and  Polar  bears  were  as  good  as 
lions  any  day.  Oh  yes,  Mr.  Westwood  might  find 
himself  compelled  to  take  a  back  seat  next  May  in 
the  presence  of  the  man  who  had  come  from  For- 
mosa with  a  crimson  monkey,  or  the  man  who 
had  come  from  Klondyke  with  a  nugget  the  size  of 
an  ostrich's  egg. 

The  people  who  talked  in  this  strain  could  with 
difficulty  be  made  to  understand  that  the  tragic  cir- 
cumstances of  the  death  of  Mr.  Westwood's  brother 
might  possibly  cause  him,  quite  apart  from  all  con- 
siderations in  regard  to  his  own  health,  to  wish  to 
live  in  retirement  for  a  few  months.  They  would 
rather  have  been  disposed  to  appraise  his  value  in  a 
drawing-room  or  as  a  "draw"  at  a  reception,  at  a 
somewhat  higher  figure,  by  reason  of  the  fact  that 
the  death  of  his  brother  had  for  close  upon  a  fort- 
night been  one  of  the  Topics  of  the  Season.  A  man 
who  is  in  any  way  associated  with  a  Topic  of  the 
Season  is  a  welcome  guest  in  every  house. 

But  Agnes,  knowing  how  attached  the  brothers 
had  been  all  their  lives,  understood  how  distasteful 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 135 

— more  than  distasteful — to  Claude  would  be  the 
idea  of  lending  himself  for  exhibition  in  order  to 
attract  people  to  some  of  those  houses  whose  at- 
tractiveness is  dependent  upon  the  freak  of  the 
fashion  of  the  hour.  She  had  also  a  feeling  that, 
although  he  had  written  that  curiously  flippant 
postscript,  Claude  had  still  in  his  heart  no  doubt  as 
to  her  faithfulness.  She  felt  that  he  knew  that  his 
retirement  would  mean  the  taking  up  with  her  of 
the  book  of  life  at  that  glowing  passage  at  which 
they  had  laid  it  down.  After  such  a  separation, 
what  a  meeting  would  be  theirs! 

And  yet  as  the  hour  for  his  coming  approached, 
she  felt  more  and  more  as  if  she  were  waiting  to 
meet  a  stranger.  She  felt  all  the  shyness  that  she 
had  felt  years  before  when,  as  a  girl,  she  had  found 
herself  in  the  same  room  with  Claude  Westwood. 
She  had  read  of  his  heroic  action  on  the  North-West 
Frontier  of  India — of  that  splendid  cavalry  charge, 
which  he  had  led,  retrieving  the  honour  of  his 
country  when  it  was  trembling  in  the  balance,  and 
so  when  she  found  herself  presented  to  him  as 
though  he  were  an  ordinary  man  whom  she  was 
meeting  casually,  she  had  felt  quite  overcome  with 
shyness. 

And  this  was  the  very  feeling  which  she  now  had 
when  she  was  counting  the  days  that  must  elapse 
before  his  arrival.  At  first  it  had  been  her  intention 
to  meet  him  aboard  the  steamer  that  was  bringing 


134  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 

him  to  England.  If  she  had  not  read  that  postscript 
she  might  even  have  thought  of  going  out  to  meet 
him  at  Suez — nay,  of  going  out  to  Zanzibar  itself; 
but  somehow  the  reading  of  those  words  at  the 
close  of  the  letter,  which  were  meant  for  his 
brother's  eyes  alone,  had  left  an  impression  on  her 
from  which  she  could  not  easily  free  herself. 

That  was  how  she  came  to  feel  that  she  was 
about  to  meet  a  stranger,  and  that  the  idea  of  wait- 
ing on  the  dock  side  for  the  arrival  of  the  steamer 
seemed  repugnant  to  her. 

Then  the  day  which  was  notified  to  her  as  that 
on  which  the  steamer  would  be  due,  arrived,  and 
found  her  awaiting  with  almost  breathless  excite- 
ment whatever  should  happen.  It  was  midday 
when  the  telegram  was  brought  to  her:  it  was  ad- 
dressed, not  to  her,  but  to  the  family  lawyer. 

"Arrived.  Shall  be  at  the  Court  in  time  for 
dinner." 

These  were  the  words  which  she  read  while  her 
heart  beat  tumultuously  at  the  thought  that  she 
would  see  him  in  a  few  hours.  She  stood  opposite 
his  picture,  feeling  that  in  future  it  would  possess 
only  an  artistic  interest  for  her.  She  would  be  left 
wondering  how  it  had  ever  been  so  much  to  her. 
But  what  was  on  her  mind  now  was  the  ques- 
tion, 
"Will  he  drive  here  on  his  way  to  the  Court ? " 

"Well,  she  would  be  prepared  to  meet  him:  but 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 135 

how  was  she  to  welcome  him  ?  She  had  heard  of 
girls  who  had  been  parted  from  their  lovers  for 
years,  putting  on  the  dress  which  they  had  worn 
on  the  day  of  parting,  so  that  it  might  seem  that 
the  time  they  had  been  apart  was  annihilated.  She 
actually  hunted  up  the  old  dress  that  was  associated 
with  her  parting  from  Claude.  It  was  still  fit  to  be 
worn,  for  she  had  paid  her  maid  compensation  for 
allowing  her  to  retain  it.  But  when  she  looked  at 
it  she  laughed.  It  was  made  in  the  fashion  of  nine 
years  before,  and  every  one  knows  how  ridiculous 
a  fashion  seems  nine  years  out  of  date. 

Annihilate  time!  Heavens!  to  wear  a  dress  made 
in  this  style  would  be  the  best  way  that  could  be 
imagined  of  emphasising  the  space  of  years  that 
had  passed.  She  laughed  and  laid  the  funny  old- 
fashioned  thing,  with  its  ribbons  fastened  in  ridicu- 
lous places  over  it  where  ribbons  are  now  never 
seen,  back  in  its  drawer. 

Alas!  the  girls  about  whom  she  had  read  had 
not  been  separated  from  their  lovers  for  nine  years; 
or  the  lovers  must  have  been  even  blinder  than  the 
majority  of  men  are  in  regard  to  the  details  of  dress, 
otherwise  they  would  have  looked  ridiculous  in- 
stead of  gracious. 

She  put  on  her  newest  dress — it  was  all  white; 
and  when  her  maid  asked  her  what  jewels  she 
would  wear,  she  said  suddenly: 

"All  my  diamonds." 


136  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 

But  before  her  jewel  case  was  unlocked  she  had 
changed  her  mind. 

"On  second  thoughts  I  will  wear  only  the 
Wedgwood  medallion  with  the  pearls,"  she  said. 

The  medallion  was  his  last  gift  to  her.  She  had 
never  worn  it  since  he  had  pinned  it  to  her  shoul- 
der. He  would  remember  that;  and  in  spite  of  the 
protest  of  her  maid,  who  feared  for  her  own  repu- 
tation as  an  artist,  she  fastened  it  on  her  shoulder, 
where  never  a  medallion  had  been  worn  within  the 
memory  of  woman. 

It  was  when  she  was  alone,  however,  that  she 
put  her  face  close  to  a  looking-glass  and  plucked 
from  her  forehead  another  grey  hair  that  had  put 
in  an  appearance.  She  had  never  plucked  one  out 
before;  she  had  never  thought  it  worth  her  while; 
but  now  she  felt  that  it  was  worth  her  while. 

Looking  out  from  her  dressing-room  window  she 
saw  that  the  windows  of  the  Court  were  brilliant; 
for  months  they  had  been  dark. 

The  hour  for  the  arrival  of  the  train  at  Bracken- 
hurst  went  by.  She  only  felt  slightly  disappointed 
when  he  did  not  call  upon  her  on  his  way  to  the 
Court.  But  she  found  this  evening,  the  last  of  all 
her  days  of  waiting,  the  longest  of  all.  He  had 
come — she  felt  sure  of  that,  and  yet  though  only  a 
mile  away,  he  was  as  much  separated  from  her  as 
he  had  been  when  thousands  of  miles  away,  with 
the  barrier  of  the  terrible  forests  imprisoning  him. 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 157 

She  waited  in  vain  for  him  until  it  was  midnight; 
and  when  he  did  not  come,  her  disappointment 
changed  to  anxiety,  and  her  anxiety  to  alarm.  She 
felt  sure  that  he  must  be  ill.  The  reports  that  had 
been  telegraphed  to  England  regarding  his  health 
must  have  been  misleading:  he  could  not  have 
recovered  so  easily  from  the  effects  of  those  awful 
years  spent  in  savagery.  It  was  she  who  should 
have  gone  to  meet  him;  no  matter  what  people 
might  have  said.  People — what  were  people  and 
their  chatter  to  him  or  to  her?  He  was  perhaps 
lying  at  the  point  of  death,  and  her  going  to  him 
might  have  saved  him,  but  the  next  day  might  be 
too  late. 

She  spent  hours  in  the  restlessness  of  self-re- 
proach, and  when  she  went  to  bed  it  was  not  to 
sleep  but  to  weep.  Only  toward  morning  did  she 
close  her  eyes  and  then  for  no  longer  than  a  couple 
of  hours.  The  London  paper  arrived  while  she 
was  at  breakfast,  and  she  found  on  an  inner  page  a 
two-column  account  of  the  arrival  of  Mr.  Claude 
Westwood,  with  particulars  of  the  voyage  of  the 
steamer  from  Zanzibar,  and  a  snap-shot  portrait  of 
the  distinguished  explorer.  Of  course  there  was 
nothing  in  the  portrait  that  any  one  could  recog- 
nise. The  picture  might  have  been  anything — 
a  map  of  Central  Africa  or  a  prize  vegetable.  It 
contained  no  artistic  elements. 

She  read  in  the  first  paragraph  of  the  account  of 


138  WELL,  AFTER  ALL • 

the  arrival,  that  Mr.  Westwood  had  been  in  excel- 
lent health,  the  progress  that  he  had  made  toward 
recovery  when  on  the  cruise  in  the  gun-boat  having 
been  apparently  completed  by  the  voyage  to  Eng- 
land. He  had  started  for  his  home,  Westwood 
Court,  Brackenhurst,  almost  immediately,  seeing 
only  a  few  personal  friends  in  the  meantime,  the 
newspaper  stated. 

Although  the  reflection  that  her  worst  antici- 
pation had  not  been  realised  brought  her  pleasure, 
she  could  not  avoid  feeling  disappointed  that  he 
had  not  come  to  her  before  he  had  slept.  It 
seemed  so  ridiculous  to  think  that  although  they 
were  within  a  mile  of  each  other  they  were  still 
apart.  When  they  had  parted  it  was  with  such 
words  as  suggested  that  neither  of  them  had  a 
thought  for  any  one  except  the  other.  Then 
through  the  long  years  she  at  least  had  no  thought 
except  for  him;  and  yet  they  were  still  apart. 

It  seemed,  too,  as  the  morning  advanced,  that  he 
had  no  intention  of  coming  to  her  this  day  either. 

But  if  such  a  thought  occurred  to  her  it  was  soon 
proved  to  be  an  unworthy  one,  for  he  came  to  her 
shortly  after  noon. 

She  was  sitting  in  the  room  where  he  had  said 
his  good-bye  to  her  long  ago.  She  heard  a  step  on 
the  gravel  of  the  drive  and  knew  it  at  once.  In  a 
moment  all  the  dreary  years  had  slipped  away  from 
her  like  a  useless  garment.  Once  more  she  felt 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 139 

like  that  shy  girl  who  had  listened  in  dreadful  se- 
crecy and  with  a  beating  heart  for  the  coming  of 
her  hero — her  lover.  She  felt  now  as  she  had  felt 
then — trembling  with  joyous  anticipation,  not  with- 
out a  tinge  of  maidenly  fear. 

She  buried  her  face  in  her  hands,  saying  in  a 
whisper: 

"  Thank  God — thank  God — thank  God! " 

And  then  he  entered  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

SHE  had  feared,  ever  since  she  had  been  thinking 
of  his  return,  that  she  would  not  be  able  to  restrain 
her  tears  when  they  should  be  together.  The  very 
thought  of  meeting  him  had  made  her  weep;  but 
now  when  she  turned  her  head  and  saw  the  tall 
man  with  the  complexion  of  mahogany  and  the 
hands  of  teak — with  the  lean  face  and  the  iron-grey 
hair,  she  did  not  feel  in  the  least  inclined  to  weep — 
on  the  contrary,  she  gave  a  laugh.  The  change  in 
his  face  did  not  seem  to  her  anything  to  weep 
about;  she  had  often  during  the  previous  three 
months  tried  to  fancy  what  he  would  be  like;  and 
it  actually  struck  her  as  rather  amusing  to  find  that 
he  bore  no  resemblance  whatsoever  to  the  picture 
she  had  formed  in  her  mind  of  the  man  who  had 
lived  for  several  years  the  life  of  a  savage. 

He  stood  looking  at  her  for  a  few  seconds. 

Neither  of  them  spoke. 

Then  he  advanced  with  both  hands  outstretched. 

"Agnes!  Agnes!"  he  cried,  "I  have  come  to 
talk  with  you  about  him— Dick— poor  Dick!  You 
saw  him  on  the  day  that  ruffian  killed  him.  You 
can  tell  me  more  than  the  others  about  him." 

He  had  both  his  hands  held  out  to  her— not  out- 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 


stretched  in  any  attitude  of  passionate  eagerness, 
but  with  encouraging  friendliness;  that  was  exactly 
what  his  attitude  suggested  to  her — encouraging 
friendliness. 

She  put  both  her  hands  into  his  without  a  word- 
without  even  rising.  He  held  them  for  a  moment 
while  he  looked  into  her  face.  There  was  an  ex- 
pression of  restlessness  on  his  face.  She  saw  that 
his  forehead  was  furrowed  with  many  lines.  His 
eyes  were  sunken,  and  there  was  a  curious  fierce- 
ness in  their  depths. 

Then  he  dropped  her  hands,  and  walked  to  the 
window,  standing  with  his  back  to  it  and  his  head 
slightly  bowed. 

"  It  was  a  terrible  shock  to  me  to  hear  what  hap- 
pened; and  to  think  that  the  same  paper  that  con- 
tained an  account  of  my  safety  told  of  his  death! 
To  think  that  within  a  couple  of  months  we  might 
have  been  together!  My  God!  When  I  think  that 
but  for  an  idiotic  man  falling  ill  when  we  were 
within  a  month's  journey  of  the  lake — a  man  whose 
life  was  worth  nothing — I  might  have  been  here — 
at  his  side — to  stand  between  him  and  danger!" 

He  began  pacing  the  room,  his  hands  clenched 
fiercely  and  the  fire  of  his  eyes  becoming  more  in- 
tense. 

She  sat  there  without  a  word,  watching  him. 
Her  eyes  followed  him  up  and  down  the  room. 

He  stopped  suddenly  opposite  to  her. 


142  WELL,  AFTER  ALL - 

"  It  was  the  cruellest  thing  ever  done  on  earth!  " 
he  cried.  "Call  it  Fate  or  Destiny  or  the  will  of 
Heaven — whatever  you  please — I  say  it  was  the 
cruellest  thing  that  ever  happened!  Why  could 
not  he  have  been  spared  for  a  couple  of  months — 
until  I  had  seen  him — until  he  had  known  that  1 
was  safe — that  I  had  done  more  in  the  way  of  dis- 
covery than  I  set  out  to  do  ?  But  to  think  that  he 
was  killed  just  the  day  before — perhaps  only  an 
hour  before,  the  news  of  my  safety  arrived  in  Eng- 
land!— it  maddens  me — it  maddens  me!  I  feel  that 
it  would  be  better  for  me  to  have  remained  lost  for 
ever  than  to  return  to  this.  I  feel  that  all  that 
fierce  struggle  for  years — the  struggle  with  those 
savages,  with  the  climate,  the  malaria,  the  agues, 
the  diseases  which  exist  in  that  awful  place  but  no- 
where else  in  the  world— I  feel  that  all  that  struggle 
was  in  vain — that  it  would  be  better  if  I  had  given 
in  at  once — if  I  had  sent  a  bullet  through  my  head 
and  ended  it  all !  Where  is  your  brother  ?  He  was 
with  him  on  that  fatal  evening.  Why  did  he  go 
away  before  he  had  seen  me  and  told  me  all  that 
there  was  to  tell  about  my  poor  Dick?" 

Still  she  was  silent.  What  answer  could  she 
make  to  such  wild  questions  ? 

"Cyril  should  not  have  gone  off  to  the  other  end 
of  the  world,  as  I  hear  he  has  done,"  he  continued. 
"He  might  have  known  that  I  would  want  to  ask 
him  much ;  and  yet,  when  I  come  here,  I  find  that 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL-  143 

he  has  been  gone  for  more  than  a  month,  and  there 
is  positively  no  one  in  this  neighbourhood  who  can 
tell  me  anything  more  of  the  horrible  affair  than  has 
appeared  in  the  newspapers.  Fawcett,  the  solicitor, 
had  kept  for  me  the  newspaper  account  of  the  in- 
quest and  the  trial.  I  saw  Fawcett  last  night,  and 
then  the  surgeon — Crosby.  We  went  to  him  after 
dinner.  He  it  was  who  showed  up  the  suicide 
theory.  How  could  it  ever  be  supposed  that  Dick 
would  commit  suicide  ?  And  yet,  if  it  hadn't  been 
for  Crosby —  Oh,  it  was  clearly  proved  that  he 
could  not  have  shot  himself;  and  yet  if  it  wasn't 
for  the  possibility  of  his  having  shot  himself,  would 
they  have  pardoned  the  wretch  who  did  the  murder? 
I  read  the  whole  account  of  the  trial,  and  Fawcett 
told  me  a  good  deal  more.  If  ever  a  brutal  murder 
was  done  by  a  man  it  was  that — and  yet  they  al- 
lowed the  fellow  to  escape — to  escape — to  keep  his 
life!  That  is  what  they  call  justice  here!  Justice! 
I  tell  you  that  those  savages — the  most  degraded  in 
existence — among  whom  I  lived,  have  a  better  idea 
of  justice  than  that." 

Still  she  was  silent.  What  could  she  say  to  him 
while  he  was  in  this  mood  ?  He  had  resumed  his 
pacing  of  the  floor.  She  no  longer  watched  him. 
She  looked  out  of  the  window.  She  had  a  strange 
impression  that  she  had  been  present  at  such  a  scene 
before,  and  that  she  had  taken  the  same  impersonal 
interest  in  it  all.  Yes,  it  had  been  at  a  theatre:  she 


144  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 


had  watched  one  of  the  actors  pacing  the  stage  and 
raving  about  British  justice — the  playwright  had 
made  the  character  a  victim  of  the  unjustness  of  the 
law.  But  the  man  had  kept  it  up  too  long:  he  had 
exhausted  the  interest  of  the  audience.  They  had 
looked  about  the  theatre  and  nodded  to  their  friends; 
but  now  she  only  looked  out  of  the  window.  The 
audience  had  yawned:  she  was  not  so  impolite. 
She  would  not  interrupt  the  man  before  her  by 
speaking  a  word. 

"  What  excuse  did  they  give  for  letting  the  assas- 
sin escape?"  Claude  Westwood  was  standing 
once  more  at  the  window — the  window  through 
which  she  had  watched  him  coming  up  the  drive 
to  bid  her  good-bye  upon  that  October  evening  long 
ago.  "Excuse?  The  man  was  found  guilty  of 
murder — the  most  contemptible  of  murders.  He 
had  not  the  courage  to  face  his  victim ;  he  fired  at 
him  from  behind — and  yet  they  let  him  escape. 
But  if  they  had  only  done  that  it  would  not  have 
mattered  so  much.  If  they  had  given  him  his  free- 
dom I  would  have  had  a  chance  of  amending  the 
lapse  of  justice.  But  they  give  him  his  life  and 
protection  as  well.  Why  did  they  not  set  him  free 
and  give  me  a  chance  of  killing  him  as  he  killed  my 
poor  brother?" 

He  stamped  upon  the  floor,  and  struck  his  left 
palm  with  his  right  fist  as  he  spoke. 

She  gave  a  little  cry  as  she  shuddered.     He  had 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 145 

at  last  succeeded  in  startling  her.  She  had  put  up 
her  hands  before  her  face. 

He  looked  at  her  quickly  and  came  in  front  of 
her. 

"Forgive  me,  Agnes,"  he  said  in  an  agitated 
voice.  "Forgive  me;  I  have  frightened  you — hor- 
rified you.  I  have  been  so  long  among  savages; 
but  I  feel  that  1  could  kill  that  wretch,  and  be  doing 
no  more  than  the  will  of  Heaven.  I  feel  that  I 
could  kill  all  that  bear  his  accursed  name,  and  yet 
"  be  conscious  of  doing  no  evil.  My  brother — ah,  if 
you  knew  how  I  have  been  supported  through  these 
long  dismal  years  by  thinking  of  him — by  the 
thought  of  the  pleasure  it  would  give  him  to  see  me 
again!  It  was  chiefly  during  that  eight  months 
which  I  spent  alone  in  the  forests  that  I  thought 
about  him.  What  a  life  I  led!  I  had  previously 
lived  the  life  of  a  savage,  but  in  the  forest  I  had  to 
live  as  a  wild  beast.  The  terrible  vigilance  I  needed 
to  exercise — it  was  a  war  to  the  knife  against  all  the 
wild  things  with  fangs  and  tusks  and  claws.  It 
was  the  Bottomless  Pit;  but  the  hope  of  return- 
ing to  him  made  me  continue  the  fight  when  I 
had  made  up  my  mind  to  fling  away  my  knife  and 
to  await  the  end,  whether  it  came  by  a  snake,  a 
wild  elephant,  or  a  lion.  I  thought  of  him  daily 
and  nightly;  and  now  when  I  come  home  I  find 
And  I  cannot  kill  the  man  who  made  my 
hour  of  triumph  my  hour  of  bitterness!  There  I 


146  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 

go,  raving  again.  Forgive  me — forgive  me,  and 
tell  me  about  him.  You  saw  him  on  that  day, 
Agnes." 

For  the  first  time  she  spoke. 

"Yes,  1  saw  him,"  she  said.  "He  was  just  the 
same  as  when  you  saw  him  last.  He  was  not  the 
man  to  change,  nor  was  he  the  man  to  expect  that 
others  would  change." 

He  looked  at  her  with  something  of  a  puzzled  ex- 
pression on  his  face. 

"Change?  Change?  You  mean  that  he — I  don't 
quite  know  what  you  mean,  Agnes.  Change?" 

"He  never  changed  in  his  belief  in  you.  When 
people  took  it  for  granted  that  you  were  dead — 
years  ago — how  many  years  ago  ? — he  believed  that 
you  were  alive — that  you  would  one  day  return. 
He  believed  that  and  never  changed  in  his  faith.  I 
believed  it  too." 

"And  that  is  the  man  whose  life  was  taken  by  a 
ruffian  who  remains  alive  to-day!  " 

He  had  sprung  to  his  feet  once  more,  and  was 
speaking  in  a  voice  tremulous  with  passion.  He 
had  ignored  her  reference  to  herself  and  her  change- 
less faith. 

"  He  was  a  man  whose  soul  was  full  of  mercy," 
she  said.  "Every  one  here  has  heard  of  his  many 
acts  of  mercy.  There  was  no  one  too  black  for  him 
to  pardon.  The  merciful  are  those  whom  Christ 
pronounced  blessed." 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL-  147 

"It  is  not  possible  that  you  have  set  yourself  to 
exculpate  the  murderer,"  he  cried. 

"  It  is  not  for  me  to  exculpate  him,"  she  replied. 
"But  I  know  that  our  God  is  a  God  of  mercy. 
Are  you  not  a  living  witness  to  that  ?  Were  not 
you  spared  when  every  one  of  your  company  was 
lost?" 

"I  am  a  poor  example  for  a  preacher,"  said  he. 
"I  was  spared,  it  is  true;  but  for  what?  For 
what  ?  I  am  spared  to  come  back  to  my  home  to 
find  that  it  is  desolate.  Is  that  your  idea  of  mercy  ? 
I  tell  you  that  in  all  that  I  have  passed  through,  in 
my  hour  of  deepest  misery,  in  all  those  terrible 
days  spent  in  the  loneliness  of  the  forest,  I  never 
felt  so  miserable,  so  lonely,  as  I  did  in  that  house 
last  night.  Mercy?  It  would  have  been  more 
merciful  to  me  to  have  let  the  cobra  and  the  vulture 
have  their  way  with  me;  I  should  have  been  spared 
the  supreme  misery  of  my  life." 

"How  you  loved  him!  "she  said,  after  a  little 
pause. 

"Loved  him!  Loved  him!"  he  repeated,  as  if 
the  words  made  him  impatient  with  their  inade- 
quacy. "  And  the  way  we  used  to  talk  about  what 
would  happen  when  I  returned!" 

"Ah!  what  would  happen — yes.  I  do  believe 
that  we  also  talked  about  it  together." 

"And  here  I  returned  to  find  all  changed." 

"All  changed?    All?    You  take  it  for  granted 


148  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 


that  all  has  changed  ?  that  nothing  is  as  you  left  it  ? 
that  no  one — no  feeling  remains  unchanged  ?  " 

She  was  looking  up  at  him  as  he  stood  gazing 
out  of  the  window. 

"  Everything  has  changed  for  me.  I  don't  know 
why  1  came  back.  I  tell  you,  Agnes,  the  very  sight 
of  the  things  that  were  familiar  to  me  long  ago  only 
increases  my  sense  of  loss — my  feeling  that  nothing 
here  can  ever  be  the  same  to  me." 

"What!  that  nothing— nothing — can  ever  be  the 
same  to  you  ?  " 

"That  is  what  I  feel." 

"  You  do  not  think  it  possible  that  it  is  you  and 
you  only  who  have  changed  ?  " 

"What?  Is  it  possible  that  you  do  not  see  that 
it  is  because  my  affection  has  not  changed  through 
all  these  years  I  am  miserable  to-day!  " 

"Your  affection?" 

"Is  it  possible  that  you  know  me  so  imperfectly 
as  to  fancy  that  my  affection  for  my  brother  would 
decrease  during  the  years  of  our  separation  ?  Ah, 
I  thought  you  would  take  it  for  granted  that  I  was 
differently  constituted.  I  fancied  that  you  would 
understand  what  my  affection  meant." 

"And  have  you  found  that  I  did  you  wrong  ?" 

"You  wrong  me  if  you  suggest — I  do  not  say 
that  you  did  actually  go  so  far — that  my  affection 
for  my  brother  could  ever  change." 

"  I  do  not  suggest  that  your  affection — your  affec- 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 149 

tion  for  your  brother — has  changed.  Oh,  believe 
me,  you  have  all  my  sympathy.  I  have  felt  times 
without  number,  after  it  was  known  that  you  were 
alive,  that  your  home-coming  would  be  cruel.  I 
knew  what  a  blow  it  would  be  to  you  to  receive 
the  news  of  poor  Dick.  I  hoped  that  my  sympathy 
Ah,  you  must  be  assured  that  I  feel  for  your 
suffering,  with  all  my  heart." 

"I  am  sure  of  it,"  said  he,  taking  for  a  moment 
the  hand  that  she  offered  him.  "If  I  had  not 
been  assured  of  it,  should  I  be  here  to-day  ?  I  do 
not  underrate  the  value  of  sympathy.  1  have  felt 
better  for  the  sympathy  even  of  strangers.  At  Uganda 
— at  Zanzibar — everywhere  1  got  kind  words;  and 
aboard  the  steamer — God  knows  whether  I  should 
have  landed  or  not  if  it  had  not  been  for  the  kind 
way  some  of  my  fellow  passengers  treated  me. 
Ah!  the  world  holds  some  good  people!  They  took 
me  out  of  myself — they  made  the  world  seem 
brighter — well,  not  brighter,  but  at  least  they  made 
it  seem  less  dark  to  me.  When  we  separated  in 
London  yesterday  the  darkness  seemed  to  fall  upon 
me  again.  Ah,  yes!  I  have  felt  what  was  meant 
by  real  sympathy;  and  yours  is  real,  Agnes.  I  re- 
member how  good  you  were  long  ago.  If  you  had 
been  my  sister  you  could  not  have  taken  a  greater 
interest  in  me.  And  your  father — ah,  he  died  years 
ago,  they  told  me  last  evening!  You  see,  you 
were  the  first  person  for  whom  I  inquired." 


150  WELL,  AFTER  ALL- 


"That  was  so  good  of  you,"  she  said  quietly. 
There  was  no  satirical  note  in  the  low  tone  in 
which  she  spoke. 

"Ah!  Was  it  not  natural?"  he  asked.  "But  I 
think  that  I  was  slightly  disappointed  to  hear  that 
you  were  still  unmarried.  I  had  fancied  you  now 
and  again  with  your  children  about  you;  and  I  was 
ready  with  a  score  of  stories  for  the  youngsters.  I 
wrote  something  to  poor  Dick  about  himself.  I 
took  it  for  granted  that  he  too  would  have  married 
and  become  surrounded  with  prattlers.  Yes,  I'm 
nearly  sure  that  I  mentioned  your  name  in  my  let- 
ter to  poor  Dick." 

"Your  memory  does  not  deceive  you,"  she  said, 
and  now  there  was  a  suggestion  of  satire  in  her 
voice,  though  he  did  not  detect  it.  "Yes,  your 
letter  was  brought  to  me  by  Mr.  Fawcett.  Why 
he  should  have  brought  it  to  me,  I  am  sure  you 
could  hardly  tell." 

"He  may  have  thought  that  it  contained  some- 
thing that  should  be  seen  only  by  the  most  intimate 
friend  of  the  family,"  he  suggested.  "You  see, 
poor  Dick's  will  mentioned  you  prominently.  That 
probably  impressed  Fawcett.  But  you  read  what  I 
wrote  ?  You  saw  that  I  had  not  forgotten  you — I 
mentioned  your  name  ?" 

"  Yes,  you  mentioned  my  name  in  a  way  that 
showed  me  you  had  forgotten  me,"  she  replied. 

"I   don't  seem   to  understand  you  to-day,"  he 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL-  151 

said.  "I  suppose  when  one  has  been  for  eight  or 
nine  years  without  hearing  a  word  of  English 
spoken,  one  degenerates." 

"Alas!  alas!"  she  said. 

Then  he  went  away. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

SHE  had,  of  course,  left  her  seat  to  shake  hands 
with  him,  and  when  he  had  gone  she  did  not  sit 
down.  She  stood  where  he  had  left  her,  in  the 
centre  of  the  room,  with  her  eyes  turned  listlessly 
toward  the  window.  She  watched  him  buttoning 
up  his  coat  as  he  walked  quickly  down  the  drive. 
A  breath  of  wind  whisked  and  whirled  about  him 
the  leaves  that  had  fallen  since  morning. 

Which  was  the  dream — the  man  whom  she 
seemed  to  see  hurrying  away  from  the  house,  or  the 
man  whom  she  seemed  to  see  coming  toward  her 
amid  the  same  whirling  leaves,  out  from  the  same 
grey  October  landscape  ? 

That  was  the  form  taken  by  her  thoughts  as  she 
stood  there.  The  landscape  was  precisely  the  same 
as  it  had  been  when  she  had  awaited  his  coming  to 
bid  her  good-bye  before  starting  on  his  expedition. 
The  same  soft  greyness  was  in  the  sky,  the  same 
skeleton  trees  stretched  their  gaunt  arms  out  over  the 
road ;  the  sodden  green  of  the  grassy  meadows,  the 
great  bloom  of  the  chrysanthemums  that  hid  the 
garden  walls,  all  were  the  same  as  they  had  been; 
but  there  was  a  man  hurrying  away  on  the  road  by 
which  she  had  stood  to  watch  his  approach  nine 
years  before. 

152 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 


It  seemed  to  her  that  she  was  having  but  another 
of  the  many  dreams  that  had  come  to  her  of  that 
man;  yes,  or  was  it  the  memory  of  a  dream  that 
returned  to  her  at  that  moment  —  a  dream  of  a  de- 
voted lover  coming  to  hold  her  in  his  arms  and  to 
kiss  her  face  before  setting  out  on  the  expedition 
that  was  to  bring  honour  to  him—  that  was  to  give 
him  a  name  of  honour  which  she  would  share  with 
him? 

Which  was  the  dream?  Were  both  dreams? 
Had  she  passed  her  life  in  a  dream,  and  had  she 
only  awakened  now  ? 

She  drew  her  hand  across  her  eyes  and  turned 
away  from  the  window  with  an  exclamation  of 
impatience.  But  then  she  seated  herself  in  front  of 
the  fire  and  bent  forward,  gazing  into  the  glowing 
log  that  had  burnt  itself  out  in  the  grate. 

Yes,  she  was  awake  now.  She  could  look  back 
and  see  clearly  all  that  had  taken  place  since  she 
had  had  that  dream  of  kissing  a  man  and  bidding 
him  go  forth  and  win  a  name  for  himself.  She  saw 
clearly  that  she  had  built  up  for  herself  the  baseless 
fabric  of  a  vision  —  that  her  life  had  been  built  upon 
a  foundation  no  more  substantial  than  air,  and  now 
she  was  sitting  among  its  ruins. 

She  had  lived  with  but  one  thought,  with  but  one 
hope,  ever  before  her,  and  that  hope  was  to  hear  the 
footsteps  of  the  man  whom  she  loved,  on  the  gravel 
of  the  drive  down  which  he  had  gone  after  bidding 


154  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 

her  good-bye.  Well,  her  hope  had  been  realised. 
She  had  heard  the  sound  of  his  feet  coming  to  her 
— yes,  and  going  from  her.  Heaven  had  answered 
her  prayer — the  one  prayer  which  she  had  cried 
through  all  the  years.  She  only  asked  to  see 
him  again;  all  the  happiness  to  follow  she  took  for 
granted. 

And  now  she  was  seated  gazing  at  the  ashes  of 
the  log  that  had  once  been  a  tree — at  the  ashes  of 
the  love  that  had  once  been  her  life. 

She  was  full  of  amazement.  How  had  this  won- 
derful thing  come  about  ?  How  was  it  that  among 
all  her  thoughts  of  disaster,  she  had  never  taken  ac- 
count of  the  possibility  of  such  a  thing  as  the  death 
of  his  love?  His  love  had  always  seemed  to  her 
the  one  thing  on  earth  which  was  certain.  To  have 
doubt  of  it  would  be  as  ridiculous  as  to  question  the 
likelihood  of  the  light  of  the  sun  being  quenched  in 
darkness.  Her  faith  had  sustained  her  when  noth- 
ing else  had  come  to  her  aid. 

And  yet  now  she  sat  there  looking  into  the  ashes. 

She  was  benumbed  with  astonishment;  and  what 
caused  her  most  astonishment  was  her  own  self- 
possession  during  the  interview  which  she  had  just 
had  with  Claude  Westwood.  She  marvelled  how 
it  was  that  she  had  sat  in  that  chair  quietly  listening 
to  him,  while  he  boasted  of  his  constancy — of  his 
having  remembered  her  name. 

He  could  not  understand  what  she  meant  when 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 155 

she  said  that  the  fact  of  his  remembering  her  name 
was  a  proof  that  he  had  forgotten  her.  Surely  he 
should  have  understood  that  she  meant  that  he  could 
not  make  such  a  reference  to  her  as  he  had  made  in 
his  postscript,  unless  he  had  forgotten  what  her  na- 
ture was. 

And  yet,  that  one  phrase  which  had  been  forced 
from  her,  was  the  solitary  expression  of  the  terrible 
thought  that  overwhelmed  her — the  thought  that  her 
life  was  laid  in  ashes.  The  reflection  upon  this 
marvellous  calmness  of  hers  amazed  her. 

She  had  heard  of  women  finding  themselves  face 
to  face  with  their  perfidious  lovers,  and  denouncing 
them  in  tragic  tones.  Was  it  possible  that  she  was 
differently  constituted  from  other  women  ?  Was 
ever  woman  so  faithful  to  a  man  as  she  had  been  ? 
And  was  not  the  unfaithfulness  of  the  man  in  pro- 
portion to  the  fidelity  of  the  woman  ?  And  yet  she 
had  been  content  to  utter  only  that  one  sentence  of 
reproach,  and  its  meaning  had  been  so  obscure  that 
he  had  failed  to  appreciate  it! 

The  worst  of  it  was  that  she  felt  in  her  heart  no 
bitterness  against  him.  She  had  no  burning  wish 
to  reproach  him  for  having  made  a  ruin  of  her  life. 
She  had  no  fervid  desire  to  be  revenged  upon  him. 
She  wondered  if  she  was  different  from  other  women 
to  whom  revenge  was  dear.  Had  all  the  spirit — 
that  womanly  element  which  women  call  spirit — 
been  crushed  out  of  her  by  that  antagonistic  element 


156  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 

known  as  constancy  ?  Had  her  faith  in  that  man 
made  her  faithless  to  her  womanhood  ? 

She  failed  to  find  an  answer  to  any  of  these  ques- 
tions; and  she  went  about  her  daily  duties  as  she 
had  always  done,  only  with  that  feeling  of  numb- 
ness upon  her  heart. 

But  when  night  came,  and  her  maid  had  left  her 
with  her  freshly-brushed  hair  falling  over  her 
shoulders,  she  bent  her  head  forward  between  the 
candles  that  were  lighted  on  each  side  of  her  toilet 
glass.  She  turned  over  the  masses  of  her  hair,  and 
saw  the  grey  lines  here  and  there  among  them. 
Then,  and  only  then,  her  tears  began  to  fall.  They 
came  silently,  but  irresistibly — not  in  a  torrent  of 
passion,  but  slowly,  blinding  her  eyes,  and  causing 
all  those  pictures  of  the  past  which  now  came 
crowding  before  her,  to  be  blurred. 

It  was  a  tear-blurred  picture  that  she  now  saw  of 
Claude  Westwood  as  he  had  appeared  before  her 
eyes  on  the  eve  of  his  departure  for  Africa — that 
picture  which  she  had  cherished  in  her  heart  of 
hearts  through  the  dreary  years.  She  now  failed  to 
see  in  it  any  of  the  features  of  the  man  who  had 
been  with  her  that  day  speaking  those  wild  words 
about  the  act  of  mercy  which  had  been  done  in  re- 
gard to  the  poor  wretch  who  had  been  found  guilty 
of  the  murder  of  Richard  Westwood.  She  had  no- 
ticed how  his  eyes  had  glared  with  the  lust  of  blood 
in  their  depths,  as  he  asked  why  the  wretch  had  not 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 157 

been  either  hanged  or  set  free — set  free,  so  that  he, 
Claude,  might  have  a  chance  of  killing  him. 

She  shuddered,  and  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands,  as  if  she  were  trying  to  shut  out  this  new 
picture  that  came  to  take  the  place  of  the  old.  Was 
it  her  doom,  she  asked  herself,  to  live  for  the  rest  of 
her  days  with  this  new  picture  ever  before  her  eyes 
— this  picture  of  the  haggard,  sun-scorched  man,  who 
had  come  back  to  civilisation  with  those  deep  eyes 
of  his  full  of  the  blood-lust  of  the  savage  ? 

She  picked  up  his  portrait,  which  he  had  given 
her  long  ago,  and  which  had  been  her  sweetest  con- 
solation ever  since.  She  had  looked  upon  it  and 
had  kissed  it  the  previous  night — every  night  since 
he  and  she  had  parted.  She  looked  at  it  now  for  a 
few  moments.  .  .  .  With  a  cry  she  flung  it  on 
the  floor  and  trampled  upon  it;  she  set  her  heel  upon 
it,  and  ground  the  glass  of  the  frame  into  the  painted 
ivory. 

"Wretch  — wretch  —  wretch!  Murderer  of  my 
youth!  "she  cried  in  a  low  voice,  tremulous  with 
passion.  "As  you  have  treated  me,  so  shall  I  treat 
you.  Thank  God,  I  have  recovered  my  woman- 
hood! Thank  God!" 

She  gave  a  laugh  as  she  looked  at  the  fragments 
at  her  feet.  But  the  second  laugh  which  she  gave 
was  not  a  laugh,  but  a  sob.  In  a  torrent  of  tears 
she  fell  on  her  knees  beside  the  shattered  picture, 
moaning: 


158  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 

"My  beloved!  Oh,  my  beloved,  forgive  me! 
what  have  I  said  ?  What  have  I  done  ?  Oh,  come 
back  to  me — come  back  to  me,  and  we  shall  be  so 
happy!" 

Her  tears  fell  on  the  fragments  of  ivory  and  glass 
as  she  gathered  them  off  the  floor.  As  she  bent 
forward  her  hair  fell  upon  them,  hiding  them  from 
view.  She  gathered  up  all  carefully  and  put  every 
scrap  she  could  find  into  a  drawer,  clasping  her 
hands  and  crying  once  more: 

"Forgive  me — forgive  me!  " 

She  closed  the  drawer  and  fell  on  her  knees,  pray- 
ing that  he  might  be  given  back  to  her;  but  she 
stopped  abruptly  after  she  had  repeated  her  implora- 
tion.  "Give  him  back  to  me!  "  For  the  truth  came 
upon  her  with  a  shock:  it  was  not  her  heart  that 
was  uttering  that  imploration. 

"  Dead  love  lives  nevermore ; 
No,  not  in  heaven !  " 

That  was  what  her  heart  was  murmuring,  while  the 
vain  repetition  came  from  her  lips: 

"Give  him  back  to  me — give  him  back  to  me! " 
But  before  she  had  closed  her  eyes  in  sleep  she 
had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  she  had  been  some- 
what unjust  toward  him.  She  felt  that  it  was  her 
wounded  vanity  which  had  caused  her  to  be  angry 
with  him.  She  should  have  known  that  his  first 
thought  on  returning  to  the  house  where  he  had 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 159 

lived  with  his  brother,  would  be  of  his  brother. 
She  should  have  known  that  the  reflection  that  he 
was  for  ever  separated  from  the  brother  to  whom 
he  had  ever  been  deeply  attached,  would  take  pos- 
session of  him,  excluding  every  other  thought — 
even  the  thought  that  he  had  returned  to  be  loved 
by  her. 

She  felt  that  it  should  now  be  her  duty  to  lead 
him  back  to  her.  So  soon  as  the  poignancy  of  his 
reflection  that  he  was  for  ever  separated  from  his 
brother  had  become  less,  he  would  turn  to  her  for 
comfort,  and  he  would  be  comforted.  The  memory 
of  their  old  love  would  come  back  to  him,  and  all 
the  happiness  to  which  she  had  looked  forward  for 
both  of  them  would  be  theirs.  Would  it  not  be 
possible  for  them  to  gather  up  the  fragments  of 
their  shattered  love  as  she  had  gathered  up  the 
fragments  of  the  picture  she  had  broken  ? 

Alas,  the  question  which  she  asked  herself  failed 
to  bring  her  happiness;  for  she  knew  that  no  hand 
could  piece  together  the  broken  ivory  which  she 
had  hidden  away  in  her  drawer;  and  still  her  heart 
kept  moaning: 

"  Dead  love  lives  nevermore ; 
No,  not  in  heaven !  " 

The  next  morning  her  maid  brought  her  among 
her  letters  one  in  a  strange  handwriting.  It  was 
signed  "Clare  Tristram." 


i6o  WELL,  AFTER  ALL- 


The  name  brought  back  to  her  long-distant 
memories  of  the  girl  bearing  this  name,  who  was 
to  have  married  Agnes's  uncle — her  mother's 
brother,  but  who  on  the  eve  of  the  wedding,  had 
fled  with  another  man. 

She  recalled  some  of  the  incidents  of  the  story, 
the  most  important  being  that  she  had  been  de- 
prived of  the  privilege  of  wearing  her  bridesmaid's 
dress.  She  recollected  that  this  had  been  a  great 
grief  to  her;  she  had  been  about  eleven  years  of 
age  when  that  disappointment  overtook  her,  and 
now  she  could  not  help  recalling  how,  when  she 
had  been  told  by  her  mother  that  Clare  Tristram 
had  gone  away  to  marry  some  one  else,  she  had 
obligingly  offered  to  wear  the  dress  upon  the  oc- 
casion of  Miss  Tristram's  wedding  to  somebody 
else,  for  she  thought  it  would  be  a  great  pity  that 
so  lovely  a  dress  should  be  locked  up  in  a  drawer. 

The  letter  which  she  now  found  before  her  was 
not  from  this  Clare  Tristram,  but  from  her  daugh- 
ter. Still  it  was  signed  Clare  Tristram,  and  this 
fact  set  her  thinking.  She  had  never  heard  the 
name  of  the  man  whom  the  girl  had  actually  mar- 
ried, and  she  had  certainly  never  heard  that  the 
man  was  any  relation  to  Clare  Tristram. 

"  DEAR  MADAM, — 1  write  to  you  in  great  doubt 
and  some  fear,"  the  letter  ran.  "My  mother,  who 
died  only  two  months  ago  at  Cairo,  where  we  have 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 161 

lived  for  several  years,  told  me,  a  few  days  before 
the  end  came  to  her  long  illness,  that  I  had  no  re- 
lations in  the  world,  and  no  friends  to  whom  she 
could  entrust  me  after  she  was  gone;  but  that  she 
felt  that  you  would  accept  the  charge,  if  only  to 
save  me  from  her  fate.  These  were  the  exact 
words  of  my  dear  mother,  and  I  repeat  them  to 
you,  because  I  think  they  may  constitute  some 
claim  upon  your  pity,  and  I  feel  that  I  have  only 
your  pity  to  appeal  to. 

"My  mother  told  me  how  she  had  done  a  cruel 
wrong  to  your  mother's  brother;  but  that  act 
brought  with  it  such  a  punishment  as  few  women 
are  called  on  to  bear.  The  one  for  whom  she  for- 
sook the  noblest  man  in  the  world  showed  himself 
within  a  year  of  her  marriage  to  be  so  bad  that 
when  he  deserted  her,  she  would  not  let  me  bear 
his  name.  She  would  not  even  let  me  know  what 
that  name  was. 

"Only  a  few  days  before  her  death  I  heard  the 
pitiful  story  from  her  lips,  and  she  told  me  to  go  to 
you,  and  entreat  you  to  save  me  from  the  cruel  fate 
that  was  hers.  I  ventured  to  ask  her  if  she  thought 
it  likely  that  you  would  receive  me,  on  the  ground 
that  she  had  done  a  great  wrong  to  your  relative; 
but  she  said,  '  Agnes  Mowbray's  mother  was  my 
dearest  friend  and  schoolfellow,  and  I  know  that 
her  daughter  will  be  as  her  mother  was.' 

"Dear  Miss  Mowbray,  I  venture  to  repeat  to  you 


1 62  WELL,  AFTER  ALL — - 

the  doubts  which  I  expressed  to  my  mother;  and  if 
you  say  to  me  that  you  do  not  wish  to  see  me,  I 
shall  not  trouble  you  further;  nor  indeed  shall  I 
pose  as  one  who  has  been  unjustly  treated.  I  have 
sufficient  money  for  my  support,  and  besides,  even 
if  that  were  to  come  to  an  end,  I  can  earn  enough 
by  my  singing  to  keep  myself  comfortably — more 
than  comfortably.  The  kind  friends  who  took 
charge  of  me  on  the  journey  to  England  are  quite 
willing  that  I  should  remain  with  them  for  an  in- 
definite period.  But  I  can  do  nothing  except  what 
my  beloved  mother  desired  me  to  do. 

"That  is  why  I  write  to  you  now,  entreating  you 
to  reply  to  me.  I  hope  you  will. 

"CLARE  TRISTRAM." 

Agnes  read  this  unexpected  letter  with  mixed 
feelings.  It  had  not  much  of  a  suppliant  air  about 
it.  The  writer  seemed  desirous  only  to  place  her 
in  possession  of  the  facts  which  had  compelled  her 
to  write. 

"  Is  this  child  sent  by  God  to  draw  my  thoughts 
away  from  myself  ?"  she  said  as  she  laid  down  the 
letter.  "Is  the  child  coming  to  give  me  comfort 
in  my  sad  hour  ?  " 

Before  evening  she  had  written  to  Clare  Tristram 
asking  her  to  come  on  a  visit  to  The  Knoll. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

SHE  felt  better  for  the  girl's  coming  before  the 
girl  had  come.  Her  household  was  not  on  so  large 
a  scale  as  to  make  it  unnecessary  for  her  to  busy 
herself  with  preparations  to  receive  a  guest;  and 
this  business  prevented  her  from  dwelling  upon  her 
own  position.  She  had  no  time  left  even  to  con- 
sider what  steps,  if  any,  she  should  take  to  further 
her  design  of  winning  back  to  herself  the  love 
which  she  had  once  cherished. 

Before  she  went  to  sleep  on  the  next  night  it 
seemed  to  her  that  the  time  when  Claude  West- 
wood  loved  her  was  very  far  off;  and  before  she 
woke  it  seemed  to  her  that  the  time  when  she  loved 
Claude  Westwood  was  more  remote  still. 

She  wondered  if  her  maid  and  the  housemaid 
would  notice  the  disappearance  of  the  miniature 
which  had  stood  upon  her  table.  With  the  thought 
she  glanced  in  the  direction  of  the  drawer  in  which 
the  fragments  were  laid — only  for  a  moment,  how- 
ever; she  had  no  time  for  further  reflections. 

So  far  as  the  servants  were  concerned  she  might 
have  made  her  mind  easy.  The  housemaid  had, 
when  brushing  out  the  room,  come  upon  some 
small  splinters  of  glass  and  ivory,  and  it  did  not  re- 
quire the  possession  on  her  part  of  the  genius  of  a 
163 


164  WELL,  AFTER  ALL  — 

Sherlock  Holmes  to  enable  her  to  associate  such  a 
discovery  with  the  disappearance  of  the  only  object 
of  glass  and  ivory  that  had  been  in  the  room. 

There  was  a  good  deal  of  innuendo  in  the  com- 
ments made  in  the  kitchen  upon  the  housemaid's 
discovery.  The  parlour-maid  shook  her  head  and 
turned  her  eyes  up  to  the  ceiling.  The  housemaid 
said  that  if  she  wished  to  say  something  she  could 
say  it.  The  cook,  however,  scorning  all  innuendo, 
made  the  far-reaching  statement  that  all  men  are 
brutes,  and  challenged  her  auditors  to  deny  it  if 
they  could. 

They  could  not  deny  it  on  the  spur  of  the  mo- 
ment, though  subsequently,  when  the  cook  was 
absent,  they  compared  experiences,  and  came  to 
the  conclusion  that  the  statement  should  be  modi- 
fied in  order  to  be  wholly  accurate. 

The  next  day  Agnes  was  overtaken  in  the  village 
by  Sir  Percival  Hope.  She  could  not  understand 
why  it  was  that  her  face  should  flush  on  seeing 
him;  it  made  her  feel  uncomfortable  for  a  few  mo- 
ments, and  then  the  strange  thought  crossed  her 
mind  that  he  was  about  to  tax  her  with  having  told 
him  that  she  and  Claude  Westwood  were  to  be 
married.  Sir  Percival  had  certainly  looked  narrowly 
at  her  for  some  time.  But  then  he  had  begun  to 
talk  upon  some  general  topic  of  engrossing  local 
interest — the  curate's  health,  or  something  of  that 
sort.  (The  curate  lived  on  the  reputation  of  having 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 165 

a  weak  chest,  and  every  autumn  his  chest  became 
a  topic  in  the  neighbourhood.) 

It  was  not  until  Sir  Percival  had  walked  back 
with  her  almost  to  the  entrance  to  The  Knoll  that 
he  said  very  quietly: 

"  1  wonder  if  you  are  happy  now." 

Again  she  felt  her  face  flushing. 

"Happy — happy?"  she  said,  interrogatively. 

"Happy  in  the  prospect  of  happiness,"  said  he. 
"  I  suppose  that  is  the  simplest  way  of  putting  the 
matter." 

She  was  silent  for  a  long  time,  until  she  came  to 
perceive  that  the  silence  meant  far  more  than  she 
intended.  That  was  why  she  cried  rather  quickly: 

"You  have  seen  him — Claude — you  have  con- 
versed with  him  ?  " 

"Yes.  He  came  to  see  me  yesterday,"  replied 
Sir  Percival.  "Great  heavens!  What  that  man 
has  gone  through.  He  deserves  his  happiness — the 
greatest  happiness  that  any  man  dare  hope  for." 

"Ah,  I  meant  that  he  should  be  so  happy,"  she 
cried,  and  there  was  something  piteous  in  her  tone. 

"  And  you  will  make  him  happy,"  said  her  com- 
panion. "  When  a  woman  makes  up  her  mind  on 
this  particular  point,  a  man  cannot  help  himself. 
His  most  strenuous  efforts  in  the  other  direction 
count  for  nothing.  He  will  be  made  happy  in  spite 
of  himself." 

She  turned  her  eyes  upon  him  inquiringly. 


1 66  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 


"  You  heard  him  speak — you  heard  the  way  he 
talks  on  that  terrible  matter?" 

"  Yes;  that  was  how  it  came  about  that  he  visited 
me.  He  wanted  me  to  tell  him  all  that  1  knew  on 
the  subject — he  was  anxious  to  have  the  scene  in  the 
Assize  Court  described  to  him  by  some  new  voice. 
He  wished  to  know  if  1  signed  a  petition  for  the  re- 
prieve of  the  murderer,  and  when  I  told  him  no  pe- 
tition had  been  signed,  but  that  the  Home  Secretary 
had  reprieved  the  man  after,  I  supposed,  consulta- 
tion with  the  judge  who  tried  the  case,  and  with  the 
law  officers  for  the  Crown,  he  seemed  to  be  over- 
come with  astonishment  and  indignation." 

"That's  the  most  terrible  thing,"  said  Agnes,  with 
an  involuntary  shudder.  "He  regards  the  granting 
of  his  life  to  that  man  as  a  worse  crime  than  the 
one  for  which  he  was  condemned.  1  cannot  under- 
stand that  hunger  for  revenge — that  thirst  for  the 
blood  of  a  fellow-creature." 

"You  cannot  understand  it  because  you  are  a 
Christian  woman,"  said  Percival.  "But  for  my 
part  I  must  say  that  I  have  the  widest  sympathy  for 
all  people;  and  no  passion,  however  strange  it  may 
seem  to  others,  is  quite  unintelligible  to  me.  I  have 
lived  long  enough  in  queer  places  to  have  become 
impressed  with  the  fact  that  the  civilisation  which 
we  profess  to  regard  as  a  part  of  ourselves  is  but 
the  thinnest  of  veneers — nay,  of  varnishes.  The 
best  of  us  is  but  a  savage  with  all  the  passions — all 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 167 

the  nature — of  a  savage  glowing  beneath  a  coat  of 
varnish.  My  dear  Miss  Mowbray,  we  should  pray 
that  we  may  not  find  ourselves  in  the  midst  of  such 
circumstances  as  put  a  strain  on  our  civilisation — 
upon  our  Christianity." 

She  gave  another  little  shudder,  she  knew  not 
why,  and  turned  her  wondering  eyes  upon  him. 

"My  sympathy  with  savages  is  unlimited,"  con- 
tinued Sir  Percival.  "One  should  not  judge  Claude 
Westwood  from  the  standpoints  to  which  we  have 
accustomed  ourselves.  It  must  be  remembered  that 
he  has  lived  for  years  among  the  worst  savages 
known  in  the  world;  and  that  he  has  been  obliged 
to  struggle  for  his  life  after  the  most  savage,  that  is, 
the  most  natural,  fashion.  Nature  regards  a  single 
life  very  lightly,  and  the  worst  of  Nature  is  that  she 
regards  the  life  of  a  man  as  no  more  sacred  than 
the  life  of  a  brute." 

"  But  we  have  our  Christianity." 

"Thank  God  that  we  have  that!  Pray  to  God 
that  we  may  be  able  to  hold  the  shield  of  Chris- 
tianity between  ourselves  and  our  nature.  I  have 
talked  all  this  cheap  philosophy  to  you — this  ele- 
mentary evolution — only  to  help  you  in  your  hour 
of  need.  I  take  it  upon  me  to  advise  you  unasked, 
and  I  would  say  to  you,  Do  not  judge  too  hastily  a 
man  who  has  lived  for  so  long  among  barbarians — 
a  man  who  was  compelled  to  fight  for  his  exist- 
ence, not  with  the  weapons  of  civilisation  and 


168  WELL,  AFTER  ALL- 


Christianity,  but  with  the  weapons  of  savagery.  In 
a  short  time  he  will  once  again  have  become  rec- 
onciled to  the  principles  of  civilisation.  He  will 
learn  once  more  to  forgive.  For  the  present,  pity 
him." 

He  spoke  in  a  low  voice,  putting  out  his  hand  to 
"her.  She  took  his  hand,  and  pressed  it.  When  he 
turned  and  went  away  from  her  in  the  direction  of 
his  own  gates,  she  remained  motionless  in  the  road, 
looking  after  him.  All  her  thought  regarding  him 
took  the  form  of  one  thought — that  he  was  the 
noblest  man  that  lived.  He  sought  only  her  happi- 
ness— so  much  was  sure;  he  had  done  his  best  to 
reconcile  her  to  the  man  who  was  his  rival,  because 
he  believed  that  she  loved  that  man. 

And  he  had  not  pleaded  in  vain.  She  felt  that 
she  had  been  selfish  and  inconsiderate  in  regard  to 
Claude.  She  had  expected  him  to  come  to  her  just 
as  he  had  left  her — to  take  her  into  his  arms  just  as 
he  had  done  on  the  evening  when  they  had  parted. 
She  had  been  intolerant  of  his  indifference  to  her  on 
his  return — of  his  thirst  for  the  blood  of  the  man 
who  had  taken  the  life  of  his  brother. 

When  she  entered  her  house  she  went  to  the 
drawer  where  she  had  placed  the  fragments  of  his 
picture.  She  looked  at  these  evidences  of  her  im- 
patience for  a  long  time,  and  when  she  closed  the 
drawer  she  was  consolidated  in  her  resolve  to  win 
him  back  to  her — to  wait  patiently  until  he  chose  to 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 169 

return  to  her;  she  knew  no  better  way  of  winning 
an  errant  love  than  by  waiting  for  it  to  return. 

The  newspapers,  however,  were  by  no  means 
disposed  to  adopt  the  policy  of  patience  in  respect 
of  a  distinguished  African  explorer  who  declined  to 
give  them  any  information  regarding  his  travels. 
They  had  never  found  such  a  desire  for  retirement 
to  be  among  the  most  prominent  characteristics  of 
African  explorers,  and  they  could  not  believe  that 
Claude  Westwood  was  sincere  in  objecting  to  give 
any  of  the  representatives  of  the  great  organs  of 
public  opinion  a  succinct  account  of  the  past  nine 
years  of  his  life — as  much  copy  as  would  make  a 
couple  of  columns. 

The  great  obstacle  in  the  way  of  their  enterprise 
was,  of  course,  the  handsome  income  enjoyed  by 
Mr.  Westwood.  The  splendid  offers  which  they 
made  to  him  produced  no  impression  on  him;  nor 
did  the  assurance  that  they  were  not  desirous  of 
getting  any  information  from  him  that  might  preju- 
dice the  sale  of  his  forthcoming  volume  or  volumes 
— they  assumed  that  a  volume  or  volumes  would  be 
forthcoming — no,  their  desire  was  merely  to  give 
him  an  opportunity  of  telling  the  public  just  enough 
to  whet  their  curiosity  for  his  book. 

He  replied  that  he  had  no  intention  of  writing  a 
book,  and  that  he  did  not  seek  for  publicity  in  any 
way. 

This  was  very  irritating  to  the  representatives  of 


170  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 

the  newspapers,  who  came  down  to  Brackenhurst 
with  such  frequency  during  the  first  few  days  after 
Mr.  Westwood's  return.  But  they  revenged  them- 
selves upon  him  in  another  way;  for,  as  he  refused 
to  tell  them  anything  about  Central  Africa,  they 
told  their  readers  everything  about  Brackenshire. 
They  gave  occasional  photographs  of  Westwood 
Court:  "Westwood  Court — North  View,"  "West- 
wood  Court — The  Queen's  Elms,"  "Westwood 
Court — The  Trout  Stream."  One  newspaper  rep- 
resentative surpassed  all  his  brethren  by  obtaining 
an  excellent  photograph  of  the  interior  of  the  dairy 
at  the  Home  Farm. 

This  was  how  matters  stood  in  regard  to  Mr. 
Westwood  and  the  outer  world  when  Agnes 
awaited  the  arrival  of  the  girl  whom  she  had  in- 
vited to  visit  her  for  an  indefinite  period.  The 
period  was  necessarily  an  indefinite  one:  Agnes 
could  not  tell  how  long  she  should  have  to  wait  for 
the  return  of  the  love  that  had  once  been  hers. 

She  got  a  letter  from  Clare  Tristram,  in  reply  to 
her  invitation,  thanking  her  for  her  kindness,  and 
suggesting  a  certain  train  by  which  she  hoped  to 
travel  to  Brackenhurst,  if  its  arrival  was  at  an  hour 
that  suited  Miss  Mowbray's  convenience. 

She  arrived  by  that  train.  Agnes  sent  her 
brougham  and  her  maid  to  meet  her  at  the  station, 
and  she  herself  was  waiting  at  the  open  door  of  the 
house  when  the  visitor  arrived. 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 171 

She  was  a  tall  girl — quite  as  tall  as  Agnes — and 
with  very  dark  hazel  eyes;  her  hair  was  brilliantly 
golden,  with  a  suggestion  of  coppery  red  about  it 
in  some  lights.  Her  face  possessed  sweetness 
rather  than  beauty  of  shape  or  tint,  and  the  curve 
of  her  mouth  suggested  the  expression  of  a  smile 
when  seen  from  one  direction.  Looked  at  from 
the  front  its  expression  seemed  one  of  sadness. 

Agnes  saw  both  the  smile  and  the  sadness  as  she 
gave  her  hand  to  the  girl,  and  led  her  into  one  of 
the  drawing-rooms. 

"  You  must  have  some  tea  before  changing  your 
dress,"  she  said.  (She  had  not  failed  to  notice  that 
the  girl's  travelling  dress  was  extremely  well  made, 
and  that  her  hat  was  in  perfect  taste.  She  knew 
that  most  women  are  to  be  known  by  their  hats.) 
Then  she  stood  in  front  of  the  girl,  looking  into 
her  face  tenderly.  "I  should  know  you  in  a  mo- 
ment from  your  likeness  to  your  mother,"  she  con- 
tinued. 

"Ah,  you  did  not  see  her  recently,"  said  Clare, 
with  a  little  sob. 

"I  did  not  see  her  since  you  were  born,"  said 
Agnes.  "  But  still  I  recollect  her  face  distinctly.  I 
can  see  her  before  me  when  I  look  at  you  now. 
Poor  woman!  She  suffered;  but  she  had  you.  No 
one  could  take  you  from  her." 

"That  may  have  been  a  consolation  to  her  long 
ago,"  said  Clare,  "but  I  am  afraid  that  during  her 


172  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 

last  illness  the  thought  of  my  future  was  a  great 
burden  to  her.  You  see,  we  had  no  relations  in  the 
world;  at  least,  none  to  whom  I  could  be  sent." 

"I  feel  that  it  was  kind  of  your  mother  to  think 
of  me,"  said  Agnes,  as  they  seated  themselves  and 
drank  their  tea. 

"  She  used  to  speak  daily  of  you,  Miss  Mow- 
bray,"  said  the  girl.  "She  told  me  how  attracted 
she  had  been  to  your  mother  until—  Ah,  I  heard 
the  sad  story.  Believe  me,  she  was  bitterly  pun- 
ished." 

"Poor  creature!  I  knew  that  she  had  been  un- 
happy. Your  father — I  have  been  trying  to  recol- 
lect his  name  during  the  past  few  days,  but  I  have 
not  been  successful." 

"I  never  heard  what  his  name  was.  My  mother 
kept  it  from  me  from  the  first.  She  said  she  never 
wished  to  hear  it  again.  It  was  not  until  I  was 
fifteen  that  I  learned  that  she  bore  her  maiden  name, 
and  not  my  father's.  I  fear  he  was — well,  he  can- 
not have  been  a  good  man." 

"We  need  not  refer  to  him  again.  I  have  no 
curiosity  on  the  subject,  I  assure  you." 

"I  have  long  ago  lost  any  that  I  once  had.  I 
hope  I  am  not  an  unnatural  daughter,  but  I  have  no 
wish  to  hear  anything  about  my  father." 

"Instead  of  talking  about  him,  my  dear,  we  will 
talk  together  about  your  mother.  I  feel  that  in  en- 
trusting you  to  me  she  paid  me  the  greatest  compli- 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 


ment  in  her  power.  I  am  sure  that  we  shall  be 
friends  —  sisters,  Clare." 

"How  good  you  are!  Ah,  we  shall  be  sisters. 
My  dear  mother  knew  you;  though  I  feared  —  I  told 
you  so  in  my  letter  —  that  you  would  consider  the 
claim  made  upon  you  a  singular  one.  I  did  not  say 
so  to  her;  I  did  not  wish  her  last  days  to  be  worried 
with  doubts,  so  I  promised  her  to  go  to  you,  and 
she  gave  me  a  letter  which  was  to  introduce  me. 
She  desired  me  to  put  it  into  your  hand.  I  do  so 
now,  though  there  is  no  need  for  it,  is  there?" 

"None  whatever,"  said  Agnes,  smiling,  as  she 
took  the  sealed  letter  which  "the  girl  handed  to  her. 
"I  shall  read  it  at  my  leisure.  Oh  no;  you  do  not 
need  any  letter  of  introduction  to  me." 

"  I  was  afraid  to  come  here  directly  on  landing," 
said  Clare;  "  yes,  even  though  I  bore  that  letter;  so 
I  thought  it  better  to  write  to  you  from  London, 
stating  my  case." 

She  had  risen,  laying  her  tea-cup  on  the  table. 
Agnes  rang  the  bell  for  her  maid  to  show  Miss 
Tristram  to  her  room. 

So  soon  as  she  was  alone  Agnes  clasped  her 
hands  and  said: 

"Thank  God!  —  thank  God!  I  feel  that  she  has 
been  sent  here  to  comfort  me." 

She  was  led  to  wonder  what  the  girl  would  have 
done  if  she  had  come  to  Brackenhurst  and  found 
her,  Agnes,  on  the  eve  of  being  married  to  Claude 


174  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 


Westwood.  How  desolate  the  poor  thing  would 
have  felt — almost  as  desolate  as  Agnes  herself  had 
felt  a  few  days  before ! 

She  thought  that  Clare  was  the  sweetest  girl  she 
had  ever  seen.  She  felt  better  for  her  coming  al- 
ready; and  with  this  thought  on  her  mind  she 
picked  up  the  letter  which  she  had  laid  on  the  table. 
She  broke  the  seal  and  began  to  read  the  first  page. 
Before  she  finished  it  her  eyes  were  tremulous. 
The  words  that  the  dying  woman  had  written  com- 
mitting her  daughter  to  her  care,  seemed  full  of 
pathos.  She  laid  down  the  letter,  she  could  not 
read  it  on  account  of  her  tears.  Some  time  passed 
before  she  picked  it  up  once  more;  but  before  she 
had  read  half-way  down  the  second  page  she  gave 
a  start  and  a  little  cry.  With  her  head  eagerly  bent 
forward  and  her  eyes  staring  she  continued  reading, 
half  articulating  the  words  in  a  fearful  whisper. 
The  hand  that  was  not  holding  the  letter  was 
pressed  against  her  heart.  Then  she  gave  another 
cry,  and  almost  staggered  to  a  chair  into  which  she 
dropped.  The  letter  fell  from  her  hands;  she 
stared  straight  in  front  of  her,  breathing  heavily. 

"My  God!"  she  cried  at  last.  "My  God!  to 
think  of  it!  To  think  of  her  in  this  house!  Oh, 
the  horror  of  it!  " 

Her  words  came  with  a  shudder,  and  she  covered 
her  face  with  her  hands.  The  next  instant,  how- 
ever, she  had  started  up  and  was  gazing  eagerly  to- 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 175 

ward  the  window;  the  sound  of  a  foot  that  she 
knew  came  from  the  gravel  of  the  drive. 

She  stood  there  with  one  hand  clutching  the 
back  of  a  chair,  the  other  still  pressed  against  her 
side.  She  was  listening  eagerly  for  the  ringing  of 
the  bell. 

The  ring  came.  She  rushed  across  the  room  to 
where  the  letter  was  lying,  and  hastily  thrust  it 
into  her  pocket.  When  Claude  Westwood  entered 
the  room  she  was  seated  with  a  book  in  front  of 
the  fire. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

"My  dear  Agnes,"  he  cried,  before  he  had  more 
than  entered  the  room.  "  My  dear  Agnes.  I  only 
heard  this  afternoon  of  the  heroic  way  you  behaved 
on  that  day — that  terrible  day  when  those  fools 
made  the  run  upon  the  bank.  I  have  come  to 
thank  you.  Why  on  earth  I  was  not  told  of  that 
incident  the  day  I  arrived,  I  am  at  a  loss  to  know. 
I  don't  think  that  the  bank  can  boast  of  much  intel- 
ligence. At  any  rate,  I  know  now  that  you  saved 
us — you  saved  us  from — well,  the  cashier  says  the 
doors  of  the  bank  would  have  been  closed  inside 
half  an  hour  if  you  had  not  appeared  so  oppor- 
tunely. How  can  I  ever  thank  you  sufficiently  ?  " 

She  looked  at  him.  He  failed  to  notice  within 
her  eyes  a  strange  light.  He  could  not  know  that 
she  had  heard  nothing  of  his  speech. 

"  Yes,  I  repeat  that  we  owe  all  to  you,"  he  went 
on.  •'  I'm  sure  that  poor  Dick  felt  it  deeply.  And 
Sir  Percival  Hope — it  was  his  cheque,  the  cashier 
told  me;  and  yet  he  didn't  say  a  word  to  me  about 
it  when  I  called  upon  him  a  few  days  ago.  But 
how  on  earth  did  you  raise  the  money  ?  Perhaps — 
I  don't  know — should  I  congratulate  you — and  him  ? 
Yes,  certainly,  and  him." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  said.  "  I  was  wonder- 
176 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 177 

ing — ah,  these  things  sometimes  do  occur — I  mean 
—  Is  it  possible  that  you  intend  to  remain  at  the 
Court  during  the  winter  ?  Surely  your  doctors  will 
not  allow  it.  You  will  go  abroad." 

"I  see  that  you  evade  my  question,"  said  he, 
with  a  laugh.  "There  is  no  reason  why  you  should 
do  so.  I  think  Hope  a  very  good  chap,  especially 
since  I  have  heard  that  it  was  his  cheque.  And  I 
said  in  my  letters  to  Dick  that  I  supposed  you  had 
got  married  long  ago." 

"  I'm  afraid  that  I  have  not  been  paying  sufficient 
attention  to  what  you  are  saying.  Sir  Percival 
Hope? — you  mentioned  Sir  Percival,"  said  Agnes. 

"Heavens!  I  have  been  wasting  my  compli- 
ments— you  have  been  thinking  of  something  else." 

"  I  wonder  if  you  have  learned  to  forgive  as  well 
as  to  forget,"  said  she. 

"What  on  earth  do  you  mean?"  he  cried. 
"You  are  a  trifle  distraite,  are  you  not ?  What  has 
forgiving  or  forgetting  to  do  with  what  I  have  been 
saying  ?" 

"The  wretched  man— I  was  thinking  of  him. 
You  have  forgotten  a  good  deal  of  the  past  that 
others  have  remembered,  but  forgiveness — that  is 
different." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  ask  me  if  my  feelings  are  un- 
changed in  respect  of  that  ruffian— that  wretch  who 
killed  the  best  man  that  ever  lived  in  the  world  ?  If 
that  is  your  question  I  can  answer  you.  I  stand 


178  WELL,  AFTER  ALL • 

here  and  tell  you  that  no  night  passes  without  my 
cursing  him  and  all  that  belongs  to  him.  If  he  has 
a  brother — if  he  has  a  wife — if  he  has  a  child — may 
they  all  suffer  what" — 

"No,  no,  no,  no;  for  God's  sake,  don't  say  those 
words,  Claude.  You  do  not  know  what  they  mean. 
You  cannot  know." 

She  had  sprung  from  her  chair  and  had  caught  the 
hand  which  he  had  clenched  fiercely  as  he  spoke. 

"  You  cannot  tell  who  it  is  that  you  are  cursing," 
she  said  imploringly.  "  No  one  can  tell.  He  may 
have  a  wife — a  child — would  you  have  them  suffer 
for  the  crime  of  their  father  ?  " 

"  I  would  have  them  suffer.  It  is  not  I,  but  God, 
who  said  'unto  the  third  and  fourth  generation.'  I 
am  on  the  side  of  God." 

"And  this  is  the  man  whom  I  once  loved! " 

He  started  as  she  flung  his  hand  from  her — the 
fingers  were  still  bent — and  walked  across  the  room, 
striking  her  palms  together  passionately. 

He  started.  There  was  a  pause  before  he  said 
slowly  and  not  without  tenderness — the  tenderness 
of  the  sentimentalist,  not  the  lover: 

"How  young  we  both  were  in  those  days!  I'm 
sure  we  both  believed  most  fervently  that  we  were 
in  love.  Alas!  alas!  But  in  affairs  like  these  the 
statute  of  limitations  is  automatic  in  its  working. 
Nature  has  decreed,  so  we  are  told,  that  in  the  course 
of  seven  years  every  particle  of  that  work  which  we 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 179 

call  man  becomes  dissolved;  so  that  nothing  what- 
ever of  the  man  whom  we  see  to-day  is  a  survival 
of  the  man  whom  we  knew  seven  years  ago." 

"Ah,  that  is  true — so  much  we  know  to  be  true," 
she  cried,  and  in  her  voice  there  was  a  note  of  ten- 
derness. 

She  looked  across  the  room  and  saw  that  his  eyes 
were  not  turned  toward  her.  They  were  turned 
toward  the  window.  She  saw  that  he  was  staring 
into  the  garden,  and  on  his  face  there  was  an  ex- 
pression of  surprise,  mingled  with  doubt. 

She  took  a  few  steps  to  one  side,  and  her  hand 
made  a  little  spasmodic  grasp  for  the  curtain,  when 
she  had  seen  all  that  he  saw. 

Out  there  a  charming  picture  presented  itself 
against  a  background  of  bare  trees,  and  a  blue  au- 
tumn sky  from  which  the  sun  had  just  departed. 
A  tall  girl,  wearing  a  white  dress  and  crowned  with 
shining  golden  hair,  stood  on  the  grass,  while  above 
and  around  her  and  at  her  feet  scores  of  pigeons 
flew  and  circled  and  strutted.  She  was  encircled 
with  moving  plumage — snow-white,  delicate  mauve, 
slate  blue— some  trembling  poised  about  her  head, 
some  with  their  wings  drawn  up  as  they  were  in 
the  act  of  alighting,  others  curving  in  front  of  her, 
and  now  and  again  letting  themselves  drop  daintily 
upon  her  shoulders,  and  perching  upon  the  finger 
which  she  held  out  to  them.  All  the  time  she  was 
laughing  and  crooning  to  them  in  a  musical  tone. 


i8o  WELL,  AFTER  ALL- 

That  was  the  scene  which  he  was  watching 
eagerly,  as  he  gazed  through  the  window,  quite  ob- 
livious of  the  fact  that  Agnes  was  watching  him 
breathlessly. 

"Merciful  heaven!"  she  heard  him  whisper. 
"Merciful  heaven!" 

She  gave  a  little  gasp.  There  was  a  silence  in  the 
room.  Outside  there  was  a  laugh  and  the  strange 
croon  of  the  girl. 

He  turned  to  Agnes. 

"Who  is  that  girl  ? "  he  asked. 

She  affected  not  to  understand  his  question.  She 
raised  her  eyes,  saying: 

"Girl?    What  girl?" 

"There — outside — on  the  lawn." 

"Oh,  Miss  Tristram — have  you  seen  her  before  ?" 

"  Have  I  seen — how  does  she  come  to  be  here  ? 
Ah,  I  need  not  ask  you.  You  heard  me  speak  of 
her  and  invited  her  here.  You  are  so  good.  Did 
you  tell  her  that  I  was  in  this  part  of  the  country  ? 
I  do  not  think  that  I  ever  mentioned  that  my  home 
was  in  Brackenshire." 

The  expression  of  surprise  which  had  been  on  his 
face  became  one  of  pleasure. 

She  watched  him  dumbly,  as  he  unfastened  the 
latch  of  the  window  and  opened  one  of  the  leaves. 
She  saw  Clare  turn  round  at  the  click  of  the  latch, 
and  glance  toward  the  window.  She  saw  the  look 
of  surprise  that  had  been  on  Claude's  face  come  to 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 181 

Clare's  as  she  stood  there  in  the  midst  of  the  wheel- 
ing birds.  The  pause  lasted  only  a  few  seconds;  it 
was  broken  by  the  laugh  of  the  girl  as  she  went  to 
the  window. 

He  stepped  out  to  meet  her  with  outstretched 
hand,  and  the  girl  laughed  again. 

Agnes  fell  back  against  the  tapestry  curtain  clutch- 
ing it  with  each  hand,  and  staring  across  the  empty 
room. 

"  My  God!  he  knows  her — he  knows  her." 

One  of  her  hands  went  down  instinctively  to  the 
pocket  into  which  she  had  thrust  the  letter  brought 
by  Clare.  She  kept  her  hand  over  it  as  though  she 
were  trying  to  hold  it  back  from  some  one  who 
wanted  to  get  it.  That  was  her  attitude  while  she 
listened  to  the  surprised  greeting  of  the  girl  by 
Claude.  He  was  saying  that  they  had  not  been 
parted  for  long — certainly  not  so  long  as  Clare — he 
called  her  Clare  quite  trippingly — had  predicted  they 
should  be;  and  Clare  inquired  of  him  if  he  knew 
Miss  Mowbray.  Was  he  also  a  guest  in  Miss  Mow- 
bray's  house  ? 

"  Heavens!  "  he  cried,  "surely  I  mentioned  in  the 
course  of  one  of  my  long  chats  aboard  the  old 
Andalusian  that  I  lived  near  Brackenhurst." 

"Lived  near  Brackenhurst?"  she  said  with  a 
laugh.  "Why,  I  was  under  the  impression  that 
you  lived  near  Bettinviga,  in  the  land  of  the  Gaken- 
nas,  beyond  the  great  Smoke  Falls  of  the  Zambesi. 


1 82  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 


I  hope  I  have  improved  in  my  pronunciation  of  the 
names.  Oh  no;  you  never  said  anything  about 
Brackenshire.  If  you  had  done^so  I  should  cer- 
tainly have  told  you  that  1  was  going  into  that  coun- 
try also— that  is,  if  I  succeeded  in  inducing  Miss 
Mowbray  to  receive  me." 

The  expression  that  Agnes's  face  had  worn  grad- 
ually passed  away  as  she  heard  them  chatting  to- 
gether making  mutual  explanations.  She  was  able 
to  loose  her  hands  from  the  curtain  that  had  sup- 
ported her.  She  was  even  able  to  give  a  smile — a 
sort  of  smile — as  she  straightened  herself  and  took 
a  step  free  of  the  curtain  and  facing  the  window. 

"Is  it  possible  that  you  were  fellow-passengers 
on  the  Andalusian  ?  "  she  asked. 

"I  fancied  that  I  had  told  you  of  meeting  Clare 
and  her  friends  aboard  the  steamer  that  took  us  on 
from  Aden,"  said  he.  "Yes,  I  feel  certain  that  I 
told  you  how  much  better  I  felt  for  the  sympathy 
they  offered  me." 

"You  mentioned  that,  but  you  did  not  give  me 
any  names,"  said  Agnes.  "  Pray  come  back  to  the 
sphere  of  influence  of  the  fire,  Clare;  you  must 
learn  not  to  trust  our  English  climate  too  implicitly. 
How  the  pigeons  have  taken  to  you!  You  must 
have  some  charm  for  them." 

"We  lived  in  Venice  for  two  years,  and  the 
pigeons  of  St.  Mark's  became  my  greatest  friends," 
said  the  girl.  "  I  used  to  feed  them  daily,  and  it 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 183 

was  while  feeding  them  that  a  dear  old  man,  who 
loved  them  also,  taught  me  how  to  talk  to  them.  I 
could  not  resist  the  temptation  of  trying  if  the  birds 
here  understood  the  language,  so  I  went  out  to 
them  from  the  next  room  when  I  saw  them  on  the 
lawn." 

"And  I  think  you  may  assume  that  your  experi- 
ment was  a  success,"  said  Agnes,  closing  the  win- 
dow when  the  girl  had  entered,  followed  by 
Claude.  "Do  you  know  of  any  other  charms  to 
prevail  upon  other  creatures  ?" 

"Oh  yes,"  she  cried:  "a  fakir  whom  I  knew  at 
Cairo  taught  me  how  to  charm  lizards.  The  first 
time  we  see  any  green  lizards  I  will  show  you  how 
to  mesmerise  them." 

"I'm  afraid  you'll  not  have  quite  so  much  prac- 
tice here  as  you  had  in  Egypt,"  said  Agnes.  "  Our 
green  lizards  are  not  plentiful.  I  will  get  you  to 
impart  to  me  your  secret  so  far  as  the  pigeons  are 
concerned;  I  won't  trouble  you  to  teach  me  the  in- 
cantation for  the  lizards.  You  joined  the  Andalu- 
sian  at  Suez,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"Yes;  Colonel  and  Mrs.  Adrian  took  charge  of 
me  on  the  voyage  to  England,  and  it  was  from  their 
house  in  London  I  wrote  to  you,"  replied  Clare. 

"Adrian  and  I  had  gone  through  a  campaign  to- 
gether," said  Claude.  "  His  face  was  the  first  that 
I  recognised  on  my  return  to  civilisation.  I  knew 
no  one  at  Uganda,  and  at  Zanzibar  I  avoided  seeing 


184  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 


any  one,  though  the  newspaper  correspondents 
were  very  friendly;  but  Adrian  was  the  first  man  I 
saw  when  I  got  aboard  the  steamer  at  the  Red  Sea. 
Seeing  him  made  me  feel  old.  I  had  left  him  a  cap- 
tain with  about  half-a-dozen  between  him  and  a 
majority.  It  appears  that  the  frontier  people  had 
taken  advantage  of  my  enforced  absence  to  get  up 
a  quarrel  or  two  with  their  legitimate  rulers  who 
had  annexed  them  a  year  or  two  before;  and  it  only 
required  a  few  accidents  to  give  Adrian  his  com- 
mand." 

"  Colonel  Adrian  told  us  that  Mr.  Westwood  had 
been  giving  it  as  his  opinion  that  it  was  very  hard 
that  he  had  not  had  an  opportunity  of  distinguish- 
ing himself  while  the  Colonel  had  been  so  fortu- 
nate," laughed  Clare,  turning  to  Agnes. 

"Did  the  newspaper  men  show  any  great  desire 
to  have  an  interview  with  your  friend,  Colonel 
Adrian?"  said  Agnes. 

"  If  they  had  they  would  have  learned  something 
about  the  Chitralis  and  their  ways,"  said  Claude. 
"I'm  afraid  that  the  people  in  England  are  slightly 
indifferent  to  the  great  question  of  the  North-West 
frontier." 

Clare  laughed,  and  Agnes  perceived  that  he  had 
been  giving  a  little  imitation  of  the  Indian  officer, 
who  had  become  an  authority  on  the  great  frontier 
question  and  could  not  understand  how  people  at 
home  refused  to  devote  themselves  to  its  study. 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 185 

"Englishmen  want  to  hear  about  nothing  but 
Africa  just  now,"  said  Agnes.  "They  have  come 
to  regard  Africa  as  an  English  colony." 

"And  yet  the  greatest  living  explorer  of  Africa 
refuses  to  communicate  a  single  paragraph  to  the 
newspapers  in  regard  to  his  discoveries,"  cried  Clare. 
"  I  consider  that  a  great  shame;  I  hope  you  feel  as 
strongly  on  the  subject,  my  dear  Miss  Mowbray." 

"Mr.  Westwood  seems  to  have  lost  all  his  early 
ambition,"  said  Agnes. 

"That  is  true,"  said  Claude,  in  a  low  voice.  "I 
have  lost  my  brother." 

Clare  looked  grave.  Agnes  glanced  at  the  man. 
She  wondered  how  it  was  possible  that  he  could 
forget  the  words  which  he  had  spoken  in  that  same 
room  when  she  only  had  been  there  to  hear  them. 
"It  is  for  you — it  is  for  you,"  he  had  cried.  " It  is 
for  you  I  mean  to  go  to  Africa.  I  have  set  my 
heart  upon  winning  a  name  that  shall  be  in  some 
degree  worthy  of  you,  my  beloved!  " 

Those  were  the  words  which  he  had  said  to  her 
while  his  arms  were  about  her  and  her  cheek  rested 
on  his  shoulder.  How  was  it  possible  that  he 
could  forget  them  ?  How  could  he  now  talk  about 
having  lost  all  his  ambition  ?  She  was  his  ambi- 
tion. He  had  gone  forth  to  win  a  jewel  of  honour 
that  should  be  worthy  of  her  wearing,  and  he  had 
returned,  having  snatched  that  jewel  from  the  very 
hand  of  Death,  but  he  had  not  laid  it  at  her  feet. 


1 86  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 


Still  she  was  silent.  She  remembered  what  Sit1 
Percival  had  said  to  her:  it  was  left  for  her  to  win 
him  back. 

It  was  Clare  who  had  the  boldness  to  break  the 
impressive  silence  that  followed  his  pathetic  phrase, 
"  1  have  lost  my  brother." 

"You  told  me  that  he  had  ambition,"  said  she. 
"You  told  me  that  his  ambition  was  your  success, 
and  yet  you  refuse  to  let  the  world  know  how  you 
have  succeeded." 

He  looked  at  her  for  a  few  moments.  Her  face 
was  slightly  flushed  by  the  force  of  the  earnestness 
with  which  she  had  spoken. 

"Perhaps,"  he  said,  slowly,  "perhaps  my  ambi- 
tion may  awake  again  one  of  these  days.  I  saw 
some  queer  things.  Sometimes,  when  I  think  of 
them — of  the  strange  people — savages,  but  with  a 
code  and  religious  traditions  precisely  the  same  as 
those  of  the  Hebrews — I  feel  that  it  might  perhaps 
be  well  if  I  wrote  something  about  them;  but  then, 
I  feel — oh  no,  I  can't  bring  myself  to  do  anything 
now.  I  cannot  do  anything  until " — 

His  face  darkened.  He  walked  away  from  her 
to  the  window.  In  an  instant  he  called  out  in 
quite  a  different  tone  from  that  in  which  he  had 
spoken: 

"There  are  your  pets  still,  Clare.  They  are 
waiting  for  you  on  the  lawn." 

"I  must  send  them  back  to  their  cote  without 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 187 

delay,"  said  the  girl.  "  May  I  step  outside  for  one 
moment,  Miss  Mowbray?" 

"Only  for  a  moment,  my  dear  child.  I  am 
afraid  that  you  place  too  much  confidence  in  our 
English  climate." 

He  opened  the  window,  and  Clare  stepped  out 
among  the  pigeons  that  rose  in  a  cloud  to  meet  her. 
Claude  followed  her  slowly. 

Agnes  watched  them  without  leaving  her  seat. 
They  stood  side  by  side  in  the  fading  light. 

"  God  help  her!  God  help  her!"  said  Agnes,  in 
a  low  voice. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

"I  WONDER  if  you  will  think  our  life  here  desper- 
ately dull,"  said  Agnes,  when  she  had  dined  tete-d- 
tete  with  Clare  that  same  night.  "I  wonder  will 
you  beg  of  me  to  turn  you  out  after  you  have  expe- 
rienced a  week  of  our  country  life." 

"I  don't  think  it  very  likely,"  said  Clare.  "I 
feel  too  deeply  your  kindness  in  taking  me  in.  You 
see,  I  was  not  brought  up  to  look  upon  much  so- 
ciety as  indispensable.  We  lived  in  many  places 
on  the  Continent,  my  mother  and  I,  but  we  never 
mingled  with  the  English  colony  in  any  place.  My 
mother  seemed  to  shun  her  own  countrypeople. 
We  made  only  a  few  friends  in  Italy,  and  even 
fewer  during  the  two  years  we  were  in  Spain.  Of 
course,  when  we  went  to  Egypt  we  had  to  be  more 
or  less  with  the  English  there;  but  I  suppose  my 
mother  had  her  own  reasons  for  never  becoming 
amalgamated  with  the  regular  colony.  As  a  rule, 
we  saw  very  little  society;  and,  indeed,  I  don't  feel 
as  if  I  wanted  much  more  now.  I  think  I  have  be- 
come pretty  independent  of  my  fellow-creatures. 
If  I  am  allowed  to  paint  all  day  and  to  sing  all 
night,  I'll  ask  for  nothing  more." 

"You  will  sing  for  me  to-night,"  said  Agnes, 
"and  to-morrow  you  can  begin  your  painting.  I 

1 83 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL- 


suppose  you  had  many  chances  of  studying  both 
arts  in  Italy." 

"No  one  could  have  had  more,"  replied  Clare. 
"  I  know  that  my  education  generally  was  neglected. 
I'm  not  sure  of  my  spelling  of  English,  and  as  for 
my  sums,  I  know  they  are  deplorable.  But  my 
dear  mother  was  afraid  that  one  day  I  might  find 
myself  compelled  to  earn  money  to  live,  and  she 
said  that  no  girl  ever  made  money  by  spelling  and 
working  out  sums." 

"I  think  she  was  right  in  that  idea.  Being  a 
governess  is  not  the  same  as  making  money.  And 
so  she  gave  you  a  chance  of  studying  painting  and 
music  ?  But  painting  and  music  do  not  invariably 
mean  making  money  either." 

Clare  laughed. 

"No  one  knows  that  better  than  I  do,  Miss  Mow- 
bray,"  she  cried. 

"Please  do  not  call  me  Miss  Mowbray,"  said 
Agnes.  "Have  I  once  called  you  Miss  Tristram? 
My  name  is  not  a  horrid  one.  It  does  not  set  one's 
teeth  on  edge  to  pronounce  it.  Now  don't  say  that 
there's  such  a  difference  between  our  ages;  there 
really  is  not,  you  know." 

"  I  shall  never  call  you  anything  but  Agnes 
again,"  said  the  girl. 

"That's  right;  and  perhaps  in  time  I  shall  come 
to  think  myself  as  young  as  you  are.  The  story  of 
your  education  interests  me  greatly.  Pray  continue 


190  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 


it.  Did  you  learn  painting  or  singing  first  ?  I  sup- 
pose that  question  is  absurd;  you  must  have  found 
your  voice  when  you  were  a  child." 

"  I  found  myself  with  a  kind  of  voice,  but  no  one 
seemed  to  think  that  it  was  worth  considering. 
That  was  why  I  spent  five  years  studying  the 
technique  of  painting.  It  was  only  one  day  when 
I  thought  myself  alone  in  a  picture  gallery  and  be- 
gan singing  a  country  song,  that  a  little  grey-haired 
man  appeared  from  behind  one  of  the  pillars.  I 
thought  that  he  was  one  of  the  caretakers,  and  I 
did  not  pause  until  I  found  that  he  was  looking  at 
me,  as  I  thought  angrily.  I  then  asked  him  if  sing- 
ing was  prohibited  in  the  gallery.  I  shall  never  for- 
get the  way  he  looked  at  me  and  laughed.  '  Sing- 
ing— singing  ? '  he  cried.  '  Ah,  my  sweet  signorina, 
even  if  singing  is  prohibited  you  could  not  be 
charged  with  having  transgressed.  Singing!'  Then 
he  shook  his  head.  '  But  it  was  I  who  sang  just 
now,'  I  explained.  'Great  god  Bacchus!  you  do 
not  flatter  yourself  that  that  sort  of  thing  is  singing,' 
he  cried.  'Oh  no;  singing  is  an  art — and  an  art  in 
which  you  will  excel  rather  than  in  the  art  of  paint- 
ing. Fling  that  execrable  daub  in  which  you  cari- 
cature the  blessed  St.  Sebastian  into  the  place  where 
the  dust  is  thrown,  and  come  with  me.  1  shall 
make  you  a  singer.'  " 

"  How  amusing!    And  you  obeyed  him  ?" 

"I  stared  at  the  old  man  for  a  minute,  thinking 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 191 

him  the  most  impudent  person  I  had  ever  met;  but 
like  a  flash  it  came  upon  me  that  he  was  not  a  care- 
taker, but  Signer  Marini,  the  great  maestro.  I  was 
so  overcome  with  surprise  that  in  an  instant  I  had 
done  exactly  what  he  told  me.  I  threw  away  the 
picture  on  which  I  was  working — I  really  don't 
think  it  was  so  very  bad — and  I  went  away  with 
him.  He  asked  me  where  I  lived,  and  he  accom- 
panied me  there.  He  amazed  my  poor  mother  with 
what  he  said  about  my  voice,  or  rather  about  the 
possibilities  he  fancied  he  foresaw  for  my  voice, 
and  he  taught  me  for  two  years  for  nothing." 

"And  were  his  predictions  regarding  your  voice 
fulfilled?" 

"I  am  afraid  he  fancied  that  I  should  become 
much  better  than  I  am.  But  at  any  rate  he  made  it 
possible  for  me  to  earn  money  by  my  singing.  I 
hope,  however,  I  may  not  have  to  support  myself 
in  that  way.  I  do  not  like  facing  an  audience.  I 
had  to  do  so  twice  in  Italy,  and  I  found  it  dis- 
tasteful." 

"  But  you  do  not  mind  facing  an  audience  of  one, 
I  hope." 

"  Oh,  I  will  sing  to  you  all  night.  I  sang  almost 
every  night  aboard  the  Andalusian.  I  think  Mr. 
Westwood  liked  me  to  do  so.  There  was  a  bond 
between  us — a  bond  of  suffering.  My  dear  mother 
had  only  been  a  month  dead.  I  sang  with  my 
thoughts  full  of  her." 


192  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 


"And  there  is  a  bond  between  you  and  me  also 
— a  bond  of  suffering.  You  will  sing  to  me,  my 
Clare." 

Agnes  had  her  hand  in  her  own  as  they  went  to 
the  drawing-room,  and  after  a  short  time  the  girl 
sat  down  to  the  piano  and  sang  song  after  song  for 
more  than  an  hour. 

Her  singing  was  the  sweetest  that  Agnes  had 
ever  heard.  She  did  not  sing  brilliantly  at  first,  but 
tenderrfess  and  sympathy  were  in  every  note.  No 
one  could  hear  her  without  being  affected  by  her. 
It  seemed  as  if  no  one  could  be  critical  of  her  art: 
it  is  only  when  one  ceases  to  feel  that  one  becomes 
critical;  but  Clare  made  it  pretty  plain  to  Agnes 
when  they  talked  together  later  on  that  Maestro 
Marini  had  never  been  quite  so  carried  away  by  the 
singing  of  any  of  his  pupils  as  to  be  unable  to 
criticise  it,  and  Agnes  declared  that  he  must  be  the 
most  unfeeling  man  living. 

Before  leaving  the  piano  the  girl  sang  an  operatic 
scena  of  the  most  brilliant  character  and  amazed 
Agnes  with  the  extent  of  her  resources.  She 
showed  that  her  imagination  was  on  a  level  with 
that  of  the  great  master  who  had  built  up  the 
work  to  a  point  of  sublimity  that  had  aroused 
the  enthusiasm  of  Europe.  Agnes  saw  that  Clare 
had  at  least  the  genius  to  know  what  the  maestro 
meant  when  he  had  taught  her  how  to  treat  the 
scena. 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 193 

She  kissed  the  girl,  saying: 

"  Yes,  you  can  always  earn  money  by  your  sing- 
ing; but  you  can  always  achieve  much  more  by  it: 
there  is  no  one  alive  who  could  remain  unmoved 
when  you  sing." 

"I  will  sing  to  you  every  night,"  cried  Clare. 
"You  will  tell  me  when  I  fail  to  do  what  I  set  out 
in  the  hope  of  doing  in  any  of  my  songs.  That, 
the  maestro  says,  is  the  sure  test  of  singing;  if  you 
make  yourself  intelligible  you  can  sing,  if  you  are 
unintelligible  you  are  wrong.  No  composer  who 
is  truly  great  will  write  merely  for  the  sake  of 
showing  what  difficulties  a  vocalist  can  overcome 
by  teaching  and  practice;  he  will  not  be  intricate, 
only  when  he  cannot  express  himself  with  sim- 
plicity. I  think  music  is  the  most  glorious  of  all  the 
arts." 

She  quoted  from  her  master  as  they  went  upstairs 
to  their  bedrooms  and  then  kissed  and  parted.  But 
though  Clare  was  asleep  within  a  few  minutes  of 
lying  down,  Agnes  was  not  so  fortunate.  She  lay 
awake  for  an  hour  thinking  her  thoughts,  and  then 
she  rose,  and  wrapping  a  fur-lined  cloak  about  her, 
sat  down  in  a  chair  in  front  of  the  fire,  looking  into 
its  depths. 

"I  cannot  send  her  away  again,"  she  said.  "I 
cannot  send  her  out  into  the  world.  God  has 
given  me  her  life,  and  I  have  accepted  the  trust. 
I  cannot  send  her  away.  He  need  never  learn 


I94  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 


the  truth,  the  terrible  truth.  Oh,  if  he  had  but 
some  pity!  If  she  could  but  impart  some  pity  to 
him!" 

Another  hour  had  passed  before  she  rose,  saying 
once  more,  in  a  tone  of  decision: 

"Yes,  she  shall  stay.  Whether  it  be  for  good  or 
evil  she  shall  stay.  If  I  cannot  win  him  back  I  shall 
still  have  her." 

Somehow,  Agnes  did  not  now  feel  so  strongly  as 
she  had  done  a  few  days  before  that  it  was  laid  on 
her  to  win  back  Claude.  The  fact  was  that,  after 
her  last  conversation  with  Sir  Percival,  she  had 
been  led  to  consider  by  what  means  she  should  en- 
deavor to  win  him  back  to  her.  What  were  the 
arts  which  she  should  practise  to  compass  this 
end  ?  She  had  often  read  of  the  successful  at- 
tempts made  by  young  women  to  regain  the  af- 
fections of  the  men  who  had  been  cruel  enough 
— in  some  cases  wise  enough — to  forsake  them. 
She  could  not,  however,  remember  exactly  what 
means  they  had  adopted  to  effect  their  purpose. 
She  had  an  idea  that  most  of  the  men  had  been 
brought  by  force  of  circumstances  to  perceive 
how  false-hearted  the  other  girl  was;  she  had 
a  distinct  recollection  that  the  other  girl  played  a 
very  important  part  in  the  return  of  the  lover  to  his 
first  and  only  true  love. 

After  giving  some  consideration  to  the  matter 
she  came  to  the  conclusion  that  she,  too,  could 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL—  195 

only  trust  to  time  to  lead  Claude  back  to  her.  She 
thought  of  the  lines: 

"  Having  waited  all  my  life,  I  can  well  wait 
A  little  longer." 

She  had  spent  her  life  in  waiting  for  him  to  return 
to  her,  but  he  had  not  yet  done  so;  the  man  who 
had  gone  forth  loving  her,  and  with  her  promise 
to  love  him,  had  not  returned  to  her  and  her  love. 
She  would  have  to  wait  a  little  longer. 

But  somehow  she  did  not  now  feel  impatient 
to  see  him  once  again  at  her  feet.  The  terrible 
sense  of  loneliness  that  had  fallen  on  her  when 
he  had  left  her  presence  on  the  day  after  his  arrival 
at  the  Court — that  appalling  consciousness  of  de- 
sertion— was  no  longer  experienced  by  her.  She 
awoke  from  her  few  hours'  sleep  on  the  morning 
after  Clare  had  come  to  her,  without  her  previous 
feeling  of  being  alone  in  the  world.  Her  first 
thought  now  was  that  in  half  an  hour  she  would 
be  seated  at  the  breakfast-table  opposite  to  that 
sweet  girl  who  had  been  sent  to  her  by  a  kind  Fate, 
just  at  the  moment  when  she  needed  her  most. 

Before  the  half  hour  had  quite  passed  she  was 
sitting  opposite  to  Clare;  and  before  another  hour 
had  passed  she  was  sitting  by  the  side  of  Clare  in 
her  phaeton,  pointing  out  to  her  the  various  land- 
marks round  that  part  of  Brackenshire,  as  the 
ponies  trotted  along  the  road.  Agnes  felt  as  happy 


196  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 

as  though  she  had  succeeded  in  solving  the  problem 
of  how  to  win  back  an  errant  lover. 

"It's  not  a  bit  like  the  England  of  my  fancy," 
cried  Clare,  when  the  phaeton  had  been  driven 
on  for  some  miles  beyond  the  little  town  of 
Brackenhurst. 

"Is  it  possible  that  this  is  the  first  glimpse  you 
have  had  of  England  ?"  cried  Agnes. 

"It  is  practically  my  first  glimpse  of  England.  I 
could  not  have  been  more  than  a  year  old  when  I 
was  taken  abroad." 

"And  yet  I  am  sure  that  you  had  a)l  an  exile's 
longing  to  return  to  England — you  learned  to  allude 
to  it  as  home,  did  you  not  ?  "  said  Agnes. 

"Oh,  of  course,  I  always  thought  of  England 
as  home,  though  I  managed  to  live  very  happily 
wherever  I  found  myself,"  replied  the  girl. 
"Sometimes  when  I  was  suddenly  brought  face  to 
face  with  a  party  of  English  men  and  women 
making  a  tour  of  Italy,  my  longing  to  be  in  Eng- 
land was  easily  repressed.  Indeed  I  may  safely 
say  that  at  no  time  did  I  feel  very  patriotic.  The 
greater  number  of  the  people  whom  I  met  painted 
such  a  picture  of  England  as  reconciled  me  to  live 
abroad." 

"You  do  not  recognize  the  country  from  their 
description?" 

"Why,  they  talked  of  nothing  but  fogs — they 
made  me  believe  that  from  August  to  May  there 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 197 

was  nothing  but  fog  hanging  over  the  whole  of 
the  country — fog  and  damp  and  rain  and  snow. 
Well,  we  haven't  driven  into  a  fog  up  to  the 
present,  and  I  find  these  furs  that  Mrs.  Adrian 
advised  me  to  buy  in  London,  almost  oppressive. 
The  green  of  the  meadows  beside  the  little  stream 
is  brighter  than  the  green  of  olive  trees  in  winter. 
Yesterday  the  sky  was  blue,  and  to-day  it  is  the 
same.  Oh,  I  have  become  more  English  than  the 
English  themselves;  I  feel  myself  ready  to  refer 
to  every  one  who  is  not  English  as  a  miserable 
foreigner." 

"That  is  the  proper  spirit  to  acquire:  I  hope 
you  will  be  able  to  retain  it  all  through  the  winter. 
We  do  not  invariably  have  blue  skies  and  dry 
roads  during  November  and  December  in  England. 
But  we  have  at  least  comfortable  houses,  with 
capacious  fireplaces." 

"That  is  something.  I  never  saw  a  really  good 
fire  until  I  came  to  England.  I  have  sat  shivering 
in  the  house  in  which  we  lived  at  Siena.  The  little 
brazier  of  charcoal  which  was  brought  into  the  room 
for  a  few  minutes  only  seemed  to  make  us  colder." 

Agnes  laughed,  and  there  was  a  considerable 
pause  before  she  said: 

"And  your  mother.  I  wonder  if  she  was  quite 
happy  living  abroad  all  her  life?" 

"Only  during  her  last  illness  did  she  express  a 
wish  to  see  England  once  more,"  said  Clare.  "  Ah, 


198  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 

I  cannot  speak  of  it — I  could  not  tell  you  all  she 
said  in  those  last  piteous  days.  After  she  had  writ- 
ten that  letter  which  I  brought  to  you — she  would 
not  allow  me  to  see  a  line  of  it,  but  sealed  it  and 
put  it  away  under  her  pillow — all  her  thoughts 
seemed  to  return  to  her  home.  Every  night  as  I  sat 
up  with  her  I  could  hear  her  murmur:  'If  I  could 
only  see  it  again — if  I  could  only  see  the  meadows, 
and  smell  the  English  may!'  Ah,  I  cannot  speak 
of  it." 

The  girl  turned  her  head  away,  and  a  little  sob 
struggled  in  her  throat. 

"My  poor  child!"  said  Agnes.  "You  have  all 
my  sympathy.  I  can  sympathise  with  you." 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

THEY  did  not  exchange  a  word  for  some  time; 
and  when  the  silence  was  broken  it  was  by  Clare. 

"Just  before  her  illness  I  ventured  to  suggest  to 
her  that  we  might  go  for  a  month  or  two  to  Eng- 
land," she  said. 

"  And  then"  — 

"The  look  that  came  to  her  face  was  one  of  fear 
— of  absolute  terror.  I  was  frightened,  and  began 
to  think  that  there  were  perhaps  graver  reasons  than 
I  had  ever  fancied  for  our  exile.  It  took  her  some 
moments  to  recover  from  the  shock  that  my  sug- 
gestion had  given  her,  and  then  she  said,  '  You  must 
never  think  of  such  a  thing  as  possible.  I  shall 
never  see  England  again ! ' ' 

"Poor  woman!  Ah,  what  it  is  laid  on  woman 
to  bear! "  said  Agnes.  "And  she  would  have  been 
so  happy  if  it  had  not  been  for  her  faithlessness. 
If  she  had  only  trusted  the  true  man  who  loved  her, 
she  would  have  been  happy.  I  fear  that  she  cannot 
ever  have  been  happy  with  your  father." 

"She  never  spoke  to  me  of  him." 

Clare  spoke  in  a  low  tone. 

"He  died  when  you  were  a  child — so  much,  I 
think,  was  taken  for  granted,"  said  Agnes. 

199 


200  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 

"  I  have  always  taken  it  for  granted,"  said  Clare. 
"Oh  yes;  I  remember  asking  about  him  when  I 
was  quite  young,  and  my  mother  told  me  that  1  had 
no  father." 

"Then  you  must  assume  that  he  is  dead,"  said 
Agnes;  "and  pray  that  you  may  never  have  suffi- 
cient curiosity  to  lead  you  to  seek  to  know  more 
about  him." 

Clare  looked  at  her  with  some  surprise  on  her 
face. 

"What!    You  know  " — she  began. 

"I  know  nothing,"  said  Agnes  quickly,  inter- 
rupting her.  "  I  have  heard  that  he  was  not  a  good 
man,  and  I  know  that  it  he  had  had  anything  of 
good  in  his  nature,  your  mother  would  not  have 
parted  from  him.  But  he  is  dead,  and  we  have  no 
need  to  talk  about  him.  Now  let  me  tell  you  the 
names  of  all  the  places  we  can  see  from  here." 

They  had  driven  to  the  summit  of  one  of  the  low 
Brackenshire  hills,  and  from  there  Agnes  pointed 
out  the  various  landmarks.  Far  away  to  the  north 
the  great  manufacturing  town  of  Linnborough  lay 
beneath  the  great  shadow  of  its  own  smoke,  and  to 
the  right  the  exquisite  spire  of  Scarchester  Cathedral 
was  seen,  and  by  the  side  of  the  old  minster  ran 
the  river  Leet.  All  through  the  valley  lay  the  vil- 
lages of  Nessvale,  with  its  Norman  church,  from 
the  tower  of  which  the  curfew  is  still  rung;  Green- 
ledge,  with  its  tall  maypole,  and  Holmworth,  with 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 201 

its  grey  castle  and  moat.  Then  on  every  hand  were 
to  be  seen  the  splendid  park  lands  surrounding  the 
manor  houses,  the  broad  meadows,  the  brown  fur- 
rowed fields  of  Brackenshire,  with  here  and  there  a 
farmhouse,  and  down  where  the  Lambeck  flowed, 
a  brown  mill  with  its  slow-moving  water  wheel. 
The  quacking  of  ducks  that  swam  in  the  little 
stream  was  borne  up  from  the  valley  at  intervals 
and  mingled  with  the  melancholy  whistle  of  a  cur- 
lew, and  the  occasional  notes  of  a  robin  sitting  on 
a  gate  at  the  side  of  the  road. 

"  England— England— this  is  England!"  cried 
Clare.  "  I  never  wish  to  see  any  other  land  so 
long  as  I  live.  Ah,  my  poor  mother!  This  is  what 
she  was  longing  to  see  before  she  died." 

Agnes  did  not  speak.  She  knew  that  the  girl  saw 
all  the  incidents  of  the  English  landscape  through  a 
mist  of  tears. 

It  was  not  until  the  phaeton  was  making  the 
homeward  circuit  and  had  just  come  abreast  of  the 
wall  of  Westwood  Court,  that  a  word  was  ex- 
changed between  Agnes  and  Clare.  All  the  in- 
terest of  the  girl  was  once  more  awakened  when 
she  learned  that  Claude  Westwood  had  been  born 
in  that  great  house  which  was  just  visible  through 
the  trees  of  the  park,  and  that  he  was  now  the 
owner  of  all. 

"And  the  murder — it  was  done  among  those 
trees?"  said  Clare,  in  a  whisper. 


202  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 

Agnes  nodded. 

"The  wretch — the  wretch!  What  punishment 
would  be  too  great  for  the  monster  who  did  that 
deed  ?  "  cried  Clare,  with  something  akin  to  passion 
in  her  voice. 

" Mr.  Westwood  told  you  of  it? "  said  Agnes. 

"He  did  not  need  to  tell  me  of  it,"  replied  the 
girl.  "I  had  read  all  about  it  at  Cairo." 

"Of  course.  You  got  the  English  newspapers 
there." 

"  Very  rarely;  strange  to  say,  a  copy  of  a  news- 
paper containing  a  paragraph  referring  to  the  re- 
prieve of  the  murderer  was  sent  to  my  mother  by 
some  one  in  England.  I  saw  the  paper  by  chance. 
It  had  not  been  sent  to  her  because  of  that  para- 
graph, of  course;  but  on  account  of  some  other 
piece  of  news." 

"Then  you  knew  who  it  was  that  sent  the  pa- 
per?" 

"That  was  the  mystery.  It  troubled  mother  for 
some  time  thinking  who  could  have  sent  it." 

"  But  she  knew  why  it  had  been  sent  to  her— she 
knew  what  was  the  particular  paragraph  it  con- 
tained of  interest  to  her  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think  that  she  was  quite  certain  on  that 
point;  but  she  came  to  the  conclusion  that  it  was 
on  account  of  a  paragraph  referring  to  the  produc- 
tion of  an  opera  in  London  in  which  a  friend  of 
mine — of  ours,  I  mean — had  taken  the  tenor  role." 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 203 

"  Ah ;  a  friend  of  yours  ?    What  is  his  name  ?  " 

"His  name  is  Giro  Rodani;  he  was  one  of  the 
maestro's  pupils.  We  used  to  sing  duets  under  the 
guidance  of  the  maestro;  it  was  good  for  both  of 
us,  he  said,  and  so,  I  suppose,  it  was.  At  any  rate 
Giro  got  his  engagement,  and  perhaps  he  sent 
mother  that  newspaper.  He  certainly  sent  me  the 
six  papers  that  praised  his  singing.  He  didn't  send 
those  that  were  not  quite  so  complimentary:  it  was 
the  maestro  who  sent  them  to  me." 

"The  paper  may  have  been  addressed  to  you;  it 
is  not  a  matter  of  importance.  You  would  prob- 
ably never  have  recollected  reading  the  paragraph 
about  the  reprieve  of  the  man  if  you  had  not  met 
Mr.  Westwood  a  few  months  afterwards." 

"I  certainly  should  have  forgotten  all  about  it; 
but  now — well,  now  it  is  different.  And  it  was 
among  those  trees  the  terrible  deed  was  done  ?  " 

"  Yes,  it  was  among  those  trees.  I  have  not  been 
near  the  place  since  it  happened." 

"It  was  horrible — horrible!  And  yet  they  did 
not  hang  the  man — they  gave  the  wretch  his  life! " 

The  girl  spoke  almost  fiercely — almost  in  the 
same  tone  as  Claude  Westwood's  had  been  when 
denouncing  the  man. 

Agnes  gave  a  little  cry. 

"Do  not  say  that — for  God's  sake  do  not  say 
that,"  she  said.  "'Ah,  if  you  only  knew  what  you 
are  saying! " 


204  WELL,  AFTER  ALL- 


"  If  I  only  knew!  "  cried  Clare,  in  a  tone  of  aston- 
ishment. 

"If  you  only  knew  how  your  indignation  that  a 
wretched  man's  life  was  spared  to  him  shocks 
me!"  said  Agnes.  "Dear  child,  surely  you  are  on 
the  side  of  mercy;  you  have  not  been  accustomed 
to  the  savage  code  of  a  life  for  a  life." 

Clare  was  silent. 

"It  shocks  me  to  hear  any  one  speak  as  Claude 
Westwood  does  of  that  poor  wretch,"  continued 
Agnes.  "It  is  not  possible  that  you —  Tell  me, 
Clare,  do  you  think  your  mother  would  have  had 
the  same  thought  as  you  had  just  now  ?  Was  she 
indignant  when  she  read  that  the  life  of  that  man 
Standish  was  spared  ?" 

"She  cried  'Thank  God!'  as  fervently  as  if  she 
had  known  the  wretch  all  her  life,"  replied  Clare. 
"Ah,  my  dear  mother  was  a  better  woman  than  I 
am.  Her  heart  was  full  of  tenderness." 

"And  so  is  yours,  my  child,"  said  Agnes  gently. 
"You  did  not  speak  from  your  heart  just  now. 
Your  words  were  but  an  echo  of  those  I  have  heard 
Claude  Westwood  speak." 

There  was  a  long  silence  before  Clare  put  her 
hand  on  the  arm  of  her  companion,  saying  in  a  low 
voice: 

"  I  was  wrong,  dear  Agnes.  I  spoke  unfeelingly, 
without  thinking  of  all  that  my  words  meant.  I 
only  thought  of  the  passion  of  grief  in  which  Mr. 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 205 

Westwood  had  expressed  his  indignation  that  the 
man  who  brought  so  much  unhappiness  into  his 
life  had  been  spared." 

"Pray  for  him,"  cried  Agnes  quickly.  "Pray 
for  that  man  as  Christ  prayed  for  His  murderers. 
Pray  that  his  life  may  not  have  been  given  to  him 
in  vain." 

"I  will  pray  that  God  may  pity  him,"  said  the  girl. 
"We  all  stand  in  need  of  forgiveness,  do  we  not?" 

The  remainder  of  the  drive  to  The  Knoll  was 
silent;  and  so  was  Agnes,  when  she  went  to  her 
room,  and  seated  herself  in  front  of  the  fire.  She 
was  breathing  hard  as  she  leant  forward  with 
her  head  resting  on  her  hands.  She  remained  mo- 
tionless, staring  into  the  glowing  coals  until  the 
luncheon  bell  rang.  Then  she  rose  hastily,  saying 
in  a  whisper: 

"It  was  too  terrible!  God  pity  her!  God  pity 
her!" 

Her  maid  entered  the  room,  and  she  changed  her 
dress. 

While  in  the  act  of  going  downstairs  she  heard 
the  sound  of  Claude  Westwood's  voice  in  the  hall. 
He  was  talking  to  Clare  in  front  of  the  blazing  logs 
of  the  hall  fire,  and  Agnes  saw  that  he  now  wore 
the  dress  of  a  country  gentleman.  When  he  had 
called  at  the  house  the  previous  day  as  well  as  on 
the  day  after  his  return  to  England,  he  had  worn  a 
black  morning  coat.  She  paused  beneath  the 


206  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 

stained-glass  window  of  the  little  lobby  where  the 
broad  staircases  turned  off  at  right  angles  to  the 
half-dozen  shallow  steps  at  the  bottom — she  paused, 
and  could  not  move  for  some  moments,  for  the 
scene  which  was  before  her  eyes  appeared  to  her 
like  a  glimpse  of  a  day  she  remembered  well:  the 
same  man  wearing  the  same  jacket  and  gaiters,  had 
stood  talking  in  the  same  voice  to  a  young  girl  who 
looked  up  to  his  face  as  she  stooped  somewhat  over 
the  big  grate,  holding  her  fingers  over  the  blaze, 
just  as  Clare  was  doing. 

She  stood  motionless  on  the  landing.  The  crim- 
son roses  of  the  stained-glass  of  the  window  made 
her  a  splendid  head-dress,  and  in  the  panels  on  each 
side  spread  branches  of  rosemary — rosemary  for  re- 
membrance. 

Alas!  she  remembered  but  too  well  the  words 
which  had  been  spoken  between  the  two  people 
who  had  stood  there  long  ago.  "It  is  for  you — it 
is  all  for  you,"  he  had  said.  "I  mean  to  make  a 
name  that  shall  be  in  some  measure  worthy  of 
you."  Those  were  his  words,  and  then  she  had 
looked  up  to  his  face  and  had  put  her  hand,  warm 
from  the  fire,  into  his  hand.  She  had  trusted  him; 
and  now  — 

"Is  it  a  ghost?"  cried  Clare,  laughing.  "Are 
you  a  ghost,  beautiful  lady,  or  do  you  see  a  ghost  ?" 

She  had  gone  along  the  hall  to  the  foot  of  the 
half-dozen  shallow  oak  steps  beneath  the  window. 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL-  207 

"A  ghost — a  ghost,"  said  Agnes,  descending. 
"  Yes,  I  have  seen  a  ghost." 

Claude  advanced  to  the  middle  of  the  hall  to  meet 
her.  She  greeted  him  silently. 

"1  saw  your  ponies  in  the  distance  and  hurried 
after  you,  hoping  that  you  would  ask  me  to  lunch," 
said  he. 

"A  woman's  lunch! "she  cried.  "You  cannot 
surely  know  what  our  menu  is." 

"I  will  take  it  on  trust,"  said  he.  "You  repre- 
sent company  here.  When  I  come  to  you  I  forget 
the  loneliness  of  the  Court." 

When  speaking  he  had  looked  first  at  Agnes,  then 
at  Clare.  He  seemed  to  take  care  to  prevent  the 
possibility  of  Agnes's  fancying  that  he  was  address- 
ing her  individually  when  he  said,  "  You  represent 
company  here." 

"And  you  represent  company  to  us;  for  the  ca- 
pacity of  two  lone  women  to  feel  lonely  is  quite  as 
great  as  that  of  one  man,"  said  she,  smiling  in  her 
old  way. 

"He  brings  us  news,  Agnes — good  news,"  said 
Clare.  "  He  has  got  the  medal  of  the — the  society 
— what  was  the  name  that  you  gave  the  society, 
Mr.  Westwood  ?" 

"The  Geographical,"  said  he.  "They  have 
treated  me  well,  I  must  confess.  They  have  been 
compelled  to  take  me  on  trust,  so  to  speak — to  ac- 
cept my  discoveries,  without  any  demonstration  on 


208  WELL,  AFTER  ALL- 


my  part.  No  one  knows  anything  of  what  I  have 
seen  or  what  I  have  done  in  Central  Africa.  The 
outline  that  was  cabled  home  represented  only  the 
recollections  of  a  missionary  at  Uganda.  It  is  a 
little  better  than  nonsense." 

"That  is  the  greater  reason,  I  say,  why  you 
should  take  the  opportunity  that  is  offered  to  you 
now  of  letting  the  world  know  all  that  you  have 
passed  through,"  said  Clare. 

"All — all — all  that  I  have  passed  through,  did 
you  say  ?  "  he  cried.  Then  he  laughed  curiously. 

"Well,  I  don't  suppose  that  you  could  tell  all  in 
an  hour — I  suppose  they  would  give  you  an  hour  ?" 
said  Clare. 

"They  might  even  make  it  two  hours  without 
forcing  me  to  repeat  myself,"  said  he.  "But  all — 
all!  Good  heavens!  If  I  were  to  tell  all!  Luckily 
I  cannot:  the  language  has  not  got  words  adequate 
for  the  expression  of  some  of  the  things  that  I  saw. 
Still — well,  I  saw  some  few  things  that  might  be 
described." 

"Then  you  will  go?  You  will  give  them  the 
lecture  which  you  say  they  have  invited  you  to  de- 
liver?" cried  Clare. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"Oh  yes,  you  will,"  she  said,  going  close  to 
him,  and  speaking  in  a  child's  voice  of  coaxing. 
"Agnes,  you  will  join  with  me  in  trying  to  show 
this  man  in  what  direction  his  duty  lies." 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 209 

"Ah,  in  what  direction  his  duty  lies!"  said 
Agnes  gently.  "What  woman  can  show  a  man 
where  'lies  his  duty  if  his  inclination  points  in  an- 
other direction  ?  But  I  am  forgetting  mine.  Lunch- 
eon! " 

She  pointed  to  the  door  of  the  dining-room,  at 
which  the  butler  was  standing  with  an  aggrieved 
expression  upon  his  face:  luncheon  had  been  wait- 
ing for  some  time. 

"Duty!"  said  Agnes,  when  Clare  and  Mr.  West- 
wood  had  passed  through.  "Duty!"  She  gave  a 
little  laugh. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

DUTY!  That  constituted  the  foundation  of  the 
plea  of  Clare  for  the  delivery  of  his  lecture  before 
the  Royal  Geographical  Society.  Her  eyes  sparkled 
as  she  talked  at  lunch,  urging  Claude  Westwood  to 
abandon  his  resolution  to  keep  a  secret  the  story  of 
his  adventures,  of  his  discoveries. 

"My  dear  Agnes,"  she  cried  at  last,  "will  you 
not  join  with  me  in  telling  him  all  that  is  his  duty  ?" 

Agnes  shook  her  head. 

"All?  Did  you  say 'all'?"  she  said.  "All  his 
duty  ?  Why,  my  dear,  such  a  task  would  be  akin 
to  Mr.  Westwood's  description  of  his  travels.  The 
language  does  not  contain  sufficient  words  to  tell  a 
man  all  that  is  his  duty.  But  so  far  as  the  lecture 
before  the  Geographical  Society  is  concerned  I  don't 
think  that  he  need  say  very  much.  Surely  they  are 
entitled  at  least  to  a  paper  in  exchange  for  their  gold 
medal.  Anything  less  would  be  shabby." 

"That  should  settle  the  question,"  said  Clare, 
looking  with  a  triumphant  smile  at  Claude. 

"I  suppose — yes,  I  am  sure  that  it  should,"  said 
he.  "Only — well,  I  hardly  know  where  to  begin 
in  giving  an  account  of  some  of  the  things  I  saw 
during  my  years  of  captivity.  You  have  heard  of 
the  devil-worship  of  some  parts  of  Central  Africa; 

2IO 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 211 

but  all  that  you  have  heard  has  been  a  faint,  a  far- 
off  rumour  of  what  that  worship  means.  I  have 
seen — oh,  I  tell  you  there  are  mysteries — magic — in 
the  heart  of  that  awful  Continent  that  cannot  be 
spoken  of." 

"But  there  is  much  that  you  can  talk  about — 
there's  the  country,  the  climate,  the  products,"  said 
Clare.  "  Don't  you  remember  the  hints  that  Mr. 
Paddleford  used  to  give  you  aboard  the  Andalusian  ? 
Mr.  Paddleford  was  a — a — gentleman — I  suppose  he 
would  be  called  a  gentleman  in  England." 

"Though  he  was  not  so  called  aboard  the 
steamer?"  said  Agnes. 

"Exactly.  He  was  fond  of  opening  up  new 
countries." 

"Through  the  medium  of  the  Limited  Liability 
Companies  Act — occasionally  going  a  little  further 
than  the  Act  was  ever  meant  to  go,"  said  Claude. 

"At  any  rate  he  used  to  say  that  the  man  who 
found  a  new  market  for  Manchester  or  Birmingham 
was  the  true  patriot.  But  still  you  did  not  rise  to 
the  bait — you  did  not  make  any  attempt  to  prove 
the  extent  of  your  patriotism.  But  perhaps  you 
might  be  able  to  show  the  geographical  people  that 
Manchester  or  Birmingham  might  have  what  Mr. 
Paddleford  called  a  '  look  in '  so  far  as  Central 
Africa  is  concerned." 

He  glanced  at  Clare  after  she  had  spoken. 

"  Birmingham  might  certainly  have  a  '  look  in '  at 


212  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 

some  of  the  tribes ;  it  might  contract  for  the  constant 
supply  of  brass  gods  for  them, "  said  Claude.  ' '  They 
worship  brass  out  there  with  nearly  as  much  devo- 
tion as  people  here  worship  gold.  As  for  Manches- 
ter— well,  I've  been  in  a  valley  where  Manchester 
could  find  a  hint  or  two.  The  sides  of  the  valley 
are  covered  with  a  plant — a  weed  which,  if  it  be- 
came known,  would  make  cotton  valueless.  It  re- 
quires neither  to  be  spun  nor  woven." 

"And  you  have  discovered  that  miracle,  for  which 
the  world  has  been  wanting  since  the  days  of 
Adam  ?  "  cried  Clare,  laying  down  her  life  and  fork, 
and  staring  at  him.  "  You  have  discovered  this, 
and  yet  you  could  send  that  poor  publisher  empty 
away,  although  he  had  come  out  from  England  to 
meet  you  and  make  arrangements  for  the  publica- 
tion of  your  book!" 

"Manchester  should  be  ruined  in  order  that  Mr. — 
Mr. — was  his  name — Paddleford  ? — yes,  that  Mr. 
Paddleford  might  float  a  company,"  said  Agnes. 

"  Not  merely  Manchester,  but  all  the  cotton-grow- 
ing states  of  America  would  be  brought  to  the  verge 
of  ruin,"  said  he.  "The  growth  of  that  weed  upon 
the  sides  of  the  valley  I  speak  of  far  exceeds  the 
growth  of  all  the  cotton  in  the  world.  We  travelled 
for  four  months  through  that  valley  without  once 
losing  sight  of  that  weed.  Things  are  done  on  a 
large  scale  in  Central  Africa.  The  ground  rents 
there  are  somewhat  less  than  they  are  in  Middlesex. 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 213 

Can  you  fancy  a  valley  running  from  John  o'Groat's 
to  Land's  End  with  its  sides  covered  thickly  with 
one  weed — say  with  thistles  only  ?" 

"And  you  can  tell  the  world  of  that  valley — of 
that  plant  for  which  the  world  has  been  waiting  for 
thousands  of  years,  and  yet  there  is  still  a  doubt  in 
your  mind  as  to  whether  you  should  spend  an  hour 
talking  about  it  or  not!  "  cried  Clare.  "  Look  here, 
Mr.  Westwood;  you  send  a  telegram  to  the  Presi- 
dent of  the  Geographical  Society  appointing  a  day 
to  reveal  to  him  and  his  friends — to  all  the  world — 
the  world  that  has  been  waiting  for  certainly  six 
thousand  years — some  people  say  six  million — for 
the  discovery  of  that  plant — telegraph  that,  or  I 
shall  do  it;  and  when  you  are  at  the  bureau  of  tele- 
graphs, just  send  another  message  to  the  publisher 
who  hunted  for  you,  telling  him  that  you  accept 
his  offer  of  twenty-five  thousand  pounds.  He  con- 
fided in  me  aboard  the  steamer  with  tears  in  his 
eyes,  that  this  was  the  exact  sum  that  he  had  of- 
fered to  you  for  the  making  of  two  thick  volumes 
on  your  adventures,  to  be  ready  in  four  months 
from  to-day." 

"Heavens  above!  this  is  carrying  things  with  a 
high  hand!"  cried  Claude.  "Perhaps  you  would 
not  think  it  too  much  trouble  to  suggest  a  title  for 
the  book — that,  I  understand,  is  always  a  difficult 
business." 

"Ah,  the  representative  of  Messrs.   Shekels  & 


214  WELL,  AFTER  ALL- 


Shackles,  the  publishers,  confided  to  me  his  designs 
in  regard  to  that  point  also,"  said  Clare  triumphantly. 
"The  poor  man  had  passed  days  and  nights  in  the 
Mediterranean  thinking  over  the  best  title  for  your 
book;  but  only  when  he  got  through  the  Red  Sea 
did  the  inspiration  come  to  him.  I  agreed  with 
him  that  it  would  be  too  bad  if  all  his  trouble  were 
to  no  purpose.  I  agree  with  him  still." 

"  He  went  a  long  way — so  did  you,"  said  Claude. 
"And  the  title — are  you  at  liberty  to  divulge  it  to 
the  author  of  the  book  yet  unborn  ?  " 

"  The  name  of  the  book  is  to  be  '  Homeless  in 
Hades,'  "  laughed  Clare.  "So  much  the  agent  con- 
fided in  me.  He  thought  that  by  that  title  the 
readers  would  be  prepared  for  the  worst  you  had  to 
tell  them." 

"And  so  they  would,  I'm  sure,"  said  he.  "But 
I  had  no  idea  that  the  names  of  books  were  settled 
by  the  publishers." 

"Oh,  they're  not  as  a  rule — he  explained  that  to 
me;  he  said  that  only  in  your  case  Messrs.  Shekels 
&  Shackles  were  under  the  impression  that  you 
should  know  just  what  the  public  expected  from 
you." 

"And  their  idea  is  that  the  writer  of  a  book  of 
travels  should  make  it  his  business  to  provide  the 
public  with  precisely  what  they  expect  ?  Well,  I 
can't  say  that  the  notion  is  an  extravagant  one. 
Most  of  the  volumes  of  travel  which  have  been 


WELlvAFTER  ALL 215 

written,  from  the  days  of  Sir  John  Mandeville, 
down,  have  shown  a  desire  on  the  part  of  the  au- 
thors to  accommodate  themselves  to  the  views  of 
the  publishers  and  the  public.  I'm  not  so  sure, 
however,  about  '  Homeless  in  Hades.' " 

"Then  you  will  write  the  book?"  cried  Clare, 
her  eyes  sparkling.  "Oh  yes;  when  you  begin  by 
quarrelling  with  the  title  you  are  bound  to  write  the 
book." 

"  I  don't  consider  myself  in  the  least  compromised 
in  the  matter,"  said  he.  "One  may  surely  object  to 
a  title  without  being  forced  to  write  the  book.  The 
fact  is  that,  since  I  started  for  the  Zambesi,  the  pub- 
lic taste  has  been  revolutionised  by  dry  plates.  An 
explorer  without  a  camera  is,  in  the  eyes  of  the 
public,  like — now,  what  is  he  like? — a  mouse-trap 
without  a  bait — a  bell  without  its  hammer.  Now  I 
did  not  travel  with  a  camera.  My  long  journey 
alone  through  the  forests  was  made  with  only  the 
smallest  amount  of  personal  luggage.  All  I  was 
able  to  carry  with  me  will  not  make  an  imposing 
list.  Item — one  knife;  item — one  native  bow  and 
six  poisoned  arrows;  item — six  seeds  of  the  linen 
plant." 

"What,  you  succeeded  in  bringing  home  the 
seeds  of  that  wonderful  plant  ?  " 

"I  made  up  my  mind  to  accomplish  that  at  all 
hazards.  The  seeds  are  a  good  deal  less  interesting 
to  look  at  than  the  native  weapons.  I  have  got  a 


216  WELL,  AFTER  ALL- 


glass  case  made  for  the  arrows.  They  are  not  the 
things  that  should  be  left  lying  about." 

"I  have  heard  of  poisoned  arrows.  Terrible,  are 
they  not  ?  And  the  poison  is  still  in  those  you 
have  ?" 

"It  is  the  deadliest  poison  on  earth;  and  its  effect 
remains  even  in  the  ashes  of  the  iron-wood  which 
forms  the  barb  of  the  arrow.  The  slightest  scratch 
with  the  point  of  the  weapon  is  fatal." 

Clare  listened  breathlessly.  It  was  in  a  low  voice 
that  she  asked : 

"  How  many  of  these  arrows  had  you  when  you 
contrived  to  escape  ?  " 

"  I  had  sixteen,"  he  replied.  "  I  can  account  sat- 
isfactorily for  the  ten  that  are  not  forthcoming.  I  got 
to  be  a  fairly  good  hand  with  the  bow  and  arrows 
before  I  had  been  in  captivity  for  more  than  a  year. 
I  saw  that  my  only  chance  of  successfully  escaping 
lay  in  my  acquiring  a  thorough  knowledge  of  the 
native  weapons.  I  made  a  collection  of  arrows 
which  I  secreted  at  intervals,  but  when  I  thought 
my  chance  had  arrived,  I  only  recovered  the  sixteen 
I  have  told  you  about.  I  saved  my  life  ten  times 
with  arrows  and  nine  times  with  my  knife." 

"That  will  be  your  book,"  said  Clare;  "how  you 
used  those  ten  arrows  will  be  your  book.  It  must 
be  called  'The  Arrows  and  the  Knife.' " 

"That  title  is  certainly  better  than  '  Homeless  in 
Hades,'  although  I  admit  that  I  was  homeless  and 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 217 

that  the  country  was  the  worst  Hades  that  could  be 
imagined." 

"  But  you  will  write  the  book — oh,  you  must 
promise  us  to  write  the  book.  If  we  get  him  to 
promise  we  shall  be  all  right,  Agnes;  he  is  not  the 
sort  of  man  who  would  ever  break  his  promise!  " 

"Oh,  no,  no;  a  promise  with  him  would  ever  be 
held  sacred,"  said  Agnes. 

"Promise — promise,"  cried  Clare,  going  in  front 
of  him  with  clasped  hands,  in  the  prettiest  possible 
attitude  of  humorous  imploration. 

"  A  book  of  travel  would  be  of  no  value  without 
illustrations — so  much  I  clearly  perceive,"  said  he. 
"  I  wonder  if  you  can  draw." 

"Oh  yes;  I  can  draw  in  a  sort  of  way,"  she  re- 
plied. "I  did  nothing  else  but  draw  for  some 
years." 

"That  is  a  solution  of  the  problem,"  he  said, 
putting  out  his  hand  to  her.  "I  will  write  the  book 
if  you  do  the  drawings  for  it." 

She  shrank  back  for  a  moment  and  her  face  be- 
came rosy. 

"Oh,  I  don't  think  that  I  could  draw  well  enough 
to  illustrate  your  book,"  she  cried. 

"  Ah,  have  you  seen  the  illustrations  to  any  book 
of  travel  recently  published?"  he  asked.  "No,  I 
thought  you  had  not  or  you  wouldn't  say  that  your 
capacity  fell  short  of  so  humble  a  standard  as  is  re- 
quired for  such  a  purpose.  My  dear  Clare,  cannot 


218  WELL,  AFTER  ALL- 


you  see  that  the  plan  which  I  have  suggested  is  the 
only  one  possible  for  such  a  work  as  mine  ?  I  must 
have  an  artist  beside  me  who  will  be  able  to  draw 
everything  from  my  instructions.  Nothing  must  be 
left  to  the  imagination.  An  error  in  any  point  of 
detail  would  make  the  illustration  worthless.  Ah, 
now  you  see  it  is  not  on  me  but  on  you  that  the 
production  of  the  great  work  depends,  and  yet  you 
hold  back.  It  is  now  my  turn  for  bullying  you  as 
you  bullied  me.  It  rests  with  you  to  say  whether 
the  book  will  appear  or  not." 

"  What  am  I  to  say,  Agnes  ?  "  cried  the  girl.  She 
had  become  quite  excited  at  the  new  complexion 
that  had  been  assumed  by  the  question  of  publish- 
ing the  book.  "  What  am  I  to  say  ?  I  am  afraid  of 
my  own  shortcomings." 

"If  Mr.  Westwood  is  not  afraid  of  them,  you 
certainly  need  not  be,"  said  Agnes.  "  For  my  own 
part  I  quite  see  how  much  better  it  would  be  for 
him  to  have  an  artist  working  by  his  side  and  in  ac- 
cordance with  his  own  instructions,  than  it  would 
be  to  have  the  most  accomplished  of  draughtsmen 
working  at  a  distance." 

"I'm  fearfully  afraid,  but  I  would  do  anything 
for  the  sake  of  seeing  the  book  published,"  said 
Clare. 

"Then  the  compact  is  made,"  cried  Claude. 
"Give  me  your  hand,  Clare.  Now,  Agnes,  you  are 
witness  to  the  compact." 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 219 

"  Yes,  I  am  a  witness  to  this  compact — the  second 
one  made  in  this  room,"  said  Agnes  quietly.  They 
had  by  this  time  left  the  dining-room  and  were 
standing  round  the  fire  in  the  drawing-room. 

"The  second  compact — the  second?"  said  he, 
as  though  he  were  trying  to  recall  the  previous 
compact. 

"Agnes  alludes  to  the  compact  she  and  I  made 
in  this  room  yesterday,"  said  Clare.  "We  agreed 
that  if  we  did  not  become  friends  we  should  part 
without  ceremony  before  we  got  to  hate  each  other 
—it  was  something  like  that,  was  it  not,  Agnes  ?" 

"Yes,  I  think  that  is  an  excellent  definition  of 
the  compact  made  between  you  and  me — not  in  the 
presence  of  witnesses,"  said  Agnes. 

"A  very  sensible  compact,  too,  if  I  know  any- 
thing about  women,"  said  Claude. 

"And  you  do  know  something  about  women,  do 
you  not  ?  "  said  Agnes. 

"I  am  learning  something  daily — I  may  say 
hourly,"  he  replied.  "I  have  learned  lately  how 
generous,  how  noble,  how  sympathetic  a  woman 
may  be." 

He  looked  at  Agnes  as  he  spoke,  and  sincerity 
was  in  every  note  of  his  voice. 

Agnes  smiled  faintly.  She  wondered  if  he  was 
thinking  of  the  day  when  he  had  said  good-bye  to 
her  in  that  room.  Was  his  allusion  made  to  her 
generosity  in  permitting  him  to  assume  that  there 


220  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 


was  a  statute  of  limitation  in  love — an  unwritten 
law  by  which  the  validity  of  a  lover's  vows  ceased  ? 

At  this  point  a  fresh  visitor  was  admitted — Sir 
Percival  Hope.  He  said  he  was  very  glad  to  meet 
Mr.  Westwood  that  afternoon,  the  fact  being  that 
he  had  just  been  at  the  Court  to  see  Mr.  Westwood 
in  order  to  inquire  about  his  gamekeeper,  Ralph 
Dangan,  who  had  applied  to  him,  Sir  Percival,  for  a 
situation.  He  wondered  why  the  man  was  leaving 
the  Court  preserves. 

"  The  man  seems  to  me  to  be  a  very  foolish  fel- 
low," said  Claude.  "He  came  to  me  a  couple  of 
days  ago  to  discharge  himself,  his  plea  being  that 
he  did  not  suppose  that  I  meant  to  preserve  as  my 
poor  brother  had  done.  I  asked  him  if  he  didn't 
think  it  possible  that  he  might  be  mistaken  in  his 
supposition,  and  suggested  that  he  would  have  done 
well  to  come  to  me  in  the  first  instance  to  learn 
what  my  intentions  were  in  regard  to  the  preserves. 
He  seemed  to  decline  to  enter  into  any  discussion 
with  me  on  the  subject,  but  quite  respectfully  gave 
me  his  notice  to  leave.  I  tried  to  bring  him  to  a 
sense  of  his  foolishness  in  throwing  up  a  good  place 
on  so  ridiculous  a  pretext,  but  all  the  reply  he  gave 
was,  '  1  have  made  up  my  mind  to  go,  sir,  and 
must  go.  1  can't  stay  where  1  am  any  longer.'  " 

"The  poor  man  has  had  trouble — great  trouble, 
during  the  past  few  months,"  said  Agnes.  "He 
should  be  pardoned  if  he  finds  it  intolerable  to  con- 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 221 

tinue  living  in  the  place  where  he  was  once  so 
happy." 

"  He  did  not  say  anything  about  that  to  me," 
said  Claude.  "  Only  to-day  my  steward  mentioned 
about  the  man's  daughter.  Poor  girl!  I  recollect 
her  years  ago — a  pretty  little  girl  of  nine  or  ten. 
And  then  his  son  enlisted.  I  daresay  the  view  you 
take  of  the  matter  is  the  right  one,  Agnes.  I  sup- 
pose such  men  as  Dangan  have  their  own  private 
feelings  like  the  rest  of  us." 

"He  did  not  seem  inclined  to  explain  to  me  any- 
thing of  that,"  said  Sir  Percival.  "When  I  asked 
if  he  did  not  think  he  was  behaving  foolishly  in 
leaving  a  situation  in  which  he  had  been  for  over 
thirty  years,  he  merely  said  he  had  made  up  his 
mind  to  leave  it." 

"I  would  advise  you  to  give  him  a  trial,"  said 
Claude.  "He  is  a  scrupulously  honest  man." 

"  I  feel  greatly  inclined  to  take  your  advice,"  said 
Sir  Percival. 

He  remained  to  drink  tea  with  Agnes,  and  at  the 
end  of  an  hour  both  men  left  together. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

CLARE  was  greatly  excited.  She  regarded  it  as 
a  great  triumph  that  she  had  prevailed  upon  Mr. 
Westwood  to  write  the  book  which  was  to  give 
an  account  of  his  captivity  in  Central  Africa,  his 
explorations — some  of  them  involuntary — for  the 
people  among  whom  he  dwelt  as  a  prisoner  and  an 
object  of  worship,  carried  him  about  with  them  on 
their  raids — and  his  discoveries.  She  was,  how- 
ever, in  great  dread  lest  her  part  in  the  compact 
should  be  indifferently  performed. 

She  daily  expressed  her  doubts  to  Agnes,  bewail- 
ing the  fact  that  she  had  been  too  easily  persuaded 
by  the  maestro  to  abandon  her  study  of  the  art  of 
painting  for  the  art  of  vocalism.  If  she  had  only 
devoted  to  the  former  the  time  she  had  spent  upon 
the  latter,  she  would  have  been  a  good  artist,  she 
declared.  Of  what  value  had  her  singing  been  to 
her,  she  inquired  in  doleful  tones.  It  had  been  of 
no  use  to  her,  but  if  she  had  continued  her  study 
of  drawing,  she  should  not  now  be  on  the  fair  way 
to  humiliation. 

Agnes  did  her  best  to  reassure  her,  when  she 
had  seen  her  portfolio  of  water  colour  sketches — 
some  of  them  charming  open-air  studies  and  others 

222 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 22) 

of  the  picturesque  peasantry  of  the  Biscayan  provin- 
ces. She  felt  sure,  she  said,  that  if  her  drawings 
done  by  the  direction  of  Mr.  Westwood,  were 
of  the  same  quality  as  those  in  the  portfolio,  the 
publishers  would  be  quite  satisfied  with  them. 
Clare  kissed  her  friend  a  dozen  times  in  acknowl- 
edgment of  her  kind  encouragement,  but  afterwards 
she  shook  her  head  despondently. 

"  It  is  one  thing  to  draw  for  my  own  amuse- 
ment— to  make  these  simple  records  of  the  places 
which  I  have  visited  and  the  people  I  have  seen,  but 
quite  another  thing  to  illustrate  a  serious  book — a 
book  that  is  worth  twenty-five  thousand  pounds. 
Just  think  of  it!  My  drawings  in  a  book  that  is 
worth  such  a  sum — a  book  that  will  be  in  every- 
body's hands  in  the  course  of  a  month  or  two!" 
she  cried,  as  she  paced  the  room  excitedly.  "Oh 
yes;  I  know  what  every  one  will  say:  It  would  be 
far  better  if  so  valuable  a  book  had  not  had  its 
pages  disfigured  by  such  amateurish  efforts!  Oh 
yes;  I  have  seen  the  criticisms  in  the  English 
papers.  I  know  what  they  will  say.  Oh,  what  a 
fool  I  was  to  agree  to  do  the  drawings! " 

"I  don't  think  that  you  need  be  at  all  afraid  to 
face  such  a  task,"  said  Agnes.  "  But  if  you  are, 
why  not  write  to  Mr.  Westwood,  telling  him  that 
you  repent  ?  " 

"Oh,  I  would  be  far  more  afraid  to  face  him 
after  that  than  to  face  the  drawings,"  cried  the  girl. 


224  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 

"What  would  Mr.  West  wood  think  of  any  one 
who  would  break  a  compact?" 

Agnes  looked  at  her  in  silence  for  a  few  mo- 
ments. She  was  tempted  to  tell  Clare  the  full  story 
of  the  compact  which  she  had  once  made  with  that 
man,  and  the  way  in  which  he  had  broken  it,  ig- 
noring the  fact  that  it  had  ever  been  entered  into 
by  either  of  them.  She  felt  tempted  to  ask  her  if 
the  susceptibilities  of  such  a  man  on  the  subject  of 
compacts — especially  those  made  with  women — 
were  to  be  greatly  respected;  but  she  controlled 
herself,  and  when  Clare  sat  down  with  tearful  eyes, 
she  did  her  best  to  comfort  her. 

Then  Claude  went  to  London  and  had  an  inter- 
view of  a  very  satisfactory  character  with  Messrs. 
Shekels  &  Shackles.  All  that  they  stipulated  was 
that  he  should  not  give  himself  away — the  phrase 
was  Mr.  Shekels' — at  the  Royal  Geographical  So- 
ciety. The  papers  read  by  distinguished — travel- 
lers— and  some  who  were  not  quite  so  distinguished 
— at  the  big  meetings  of  the  Society,  were  only 
designed  to  stimulate  the  imagination  of  the  public 
and  prepare  the  way  for  the  forthcoming  book.  A 
paper  that  discounted  any  portion  of  the  forthcom- 
ing book — Mr.  Shekels  took  it  for  granted  that  the 
book  was  always  forthcoming — was  worse  than 
futile  for  advertising  purposes.  He  urged  upon  Mr. 
Westwood  the  advisability  of  putting  nothing  into 
his  Geographical  Society  lecture  that  the  newspa- 


pers  could  not  lay  hold  of  for  the  purposes  of  lead- 
ing articles.  The  newspapers  did  not  want  patho- 
logical erudition.  They  wanted  something  that  all 
their  readers  could  understand — something  about 
cannibalism,  for  example;  cannibalism  as  a  topic 
never  failed  to  attract  general  readers.  He  hoped 
that  Mr.  Westwood  would  see  his  way  to  talk 
about  the  cannibals  of  Central  Africa  in  his  paper. 
That  would  tickle  the  palates  of  the  general  public, 
causing  them  to  look  forward  to  the  book,  which 
need  not  necessarily  contain  a  single  allusion  to 
cannibalism.  In  one  word,  Mr.  Shekels  explained 
that  the  lecture  should  be  a  kind  of  hors  d'ceuvre  to 
the  literary  banquet  which  was  to  follow. 

All  this  he  explained  to  Mr.  Westwood,  very 
tenderly,  of  course,  for  Mr.  Westwood  was  (un- 
fortunately, Messrs.  Shekels  &  Shackles  thought) 
not  like  the  majority  of  distinguished  explorers, 
anxious  that  the  sale  of  his  book  should  be  enor- 
mous, being  (unfortunately,  again,)  independent  of 
book-writing  for  his  living.  If  they  were  to  say 
anything  to  hurt  his  feelings,  he  might  take  his 
book,  when  he  had  it  written,  to  another  publishing 
house,  who  then  would  have  the  privilege,  so  ear- 
nestly sought  after  by  Messrs.  Shekles  &  Shackles, 
of  losing  a  considerable  sum  by  its  publication. 

On  the  subject  of  the  illustrating  of  the  book 
Mr.  Shackles — he  was  the  artistic,  not  the  business 
partner — had  a  good  deal  to  say.  He  did  not  smile 


226  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 


when  Mr.  Westwood  mentioned  that  there  was  a 
lady  of  his  acquaintance  who  would  execute  the 
drawings  under  his  own  supervision.  No,  Mr. 
Westwood  was  well  out  of  the  front  door  before 
he  had  a  laugh  with  his  partner,  who  did  not  laugh 
but  only  winked  at  the  notion  of  Mr.  Westwood's 
lady  friend.  But  while  Mr.  Westwood  was  in  his 
room  Mr.  Shackles  explained  quite  courteously  that 
he  should  like  to  see  some  of  the  lady's  work,  so 
that  he  should  be  in  a  position  to  judge  as  to 
whether  or  not  it  lent  itself  well  to  the  processes  of 
reproduction.  That  was  how  Mr.  Shackles  gave 
expression,  when  face  to  face  with  Mr.  Westwood, 
of  the  doubts  which  he  afterwards  formulated  in  a 
.  few  well-chosen  phrases  to  his  partner  as  to  the 
artistic — the  saleably  artistic — possibilities  of  the 
unnamed  lady's  work. 

Then  Mr.  Westwood  had  an  interview  with  the 
executive  of  the  Royal  Geographical  Society  on  the 
subject  of  his  lecture;  and  the  next  day  every  news- 
paper in  the  kingdom  contained  a  paragraph  an- 
nouncing this  fact,  and  most  of  them  had  half-col- 
umn leading  articles  commenting  upon  the  decision 
come  to  by  the  explorer,  and  pointing  out  that, 
owing  to  the  extraordinary  circumstances  con- 
nected with  his  involuntary  stay  in  the  interior  of 
the  Dark  Continent,  the  paper  which  he  had  so 
courteously  placed  at  the  disposal  of  the  Society 
could  scarcely  fail  to  be  the  most  interesting,  as 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 227 

well  as  the  most  important,  given  to  the  world 
through  the  same  body  for  many  years. 

It  was  with  great  trepidation  that  Clare  submitted 
her  sketches  to  Mr.  Westwood.  He  had,  of  course, 
to  pay  another  visit  to  The  Knoll  in  order  to  make 
a  choice  of  the  works  to  be  sent  to  Mr.  Shackles  as 
specimens;  and  even  when  Claude  had  expressed 
himself  confident  that  Mr.  Shackles  would  be  sur- 
prised at  the  high  quality  of  the  technique  in  those 
he  selected,  the  girl  was  not  reassured.  It  was  not 
till  Claude  had  shown  her  the  publishers'  letter  re- 
garding the  drawings — another  visit  had  to  be  paid 
to  The  Knoll  in  order  to  show  her  this  letter — that 
she  began  to  regain  confidence  in  herself.  Her  face 
was  rosy  with  pleasure  before  Claude  had  finished 
reading  the  letter. 

The  fact  was  that  Messrs.  Shekels  &  Shackles 
had  come  to  the  decision  that  they  would  be  acting 
wisely  in  humouring  Mr.  Westwood  in  this  matter 
of  illustrations;  and  seeing  that  the  specimens  of 
Miss  Tristram's  work  were  susceptible  of  being  im- 
proved by  a  judicious  artist  accustomed  to  manipu- 
late such  work  as  was  to  be  reproduced  by  certain 
processes,  the  letter  on  the  subject  had  been  as 
nearly  enthusiastic  as  Messrs.  Shekels  &  Shackles 
ever  allowed  themselves  to  become  in  the  presence 
of  their  typewriter.  They  had  meant  to  gratify  Mr. 
Westwood,  and  the  reply  which  they  got  from  him 
convinced  them  that  their  object  was  achieved. 


228  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 


For  the  next  week  Clare  spent  her  days  in  the 
greenhouse,  making  sketches  of  all  the  tropical 
plants  in  Agnes's  collection.  From  studying  the 
general  character  of  the  illustrations  in  several  vol- 
umes of  African  travel — Agnes  had  on  her  shelves 
every  volume  of  exploration  in  the  Continent — the 
girl  became  aware  of  the  fact  that  the  public  will 
not  believe  that  any  drawing  is  offered  to  them  in 
good  faith  unless  it  contains  at  least  one  tropical 
plant  with  which  they  are  familiar.  She  made  up 
her  mind  that  the  vegetation  in  her  pictures  should 
be  plentiful,  however  far  short  it  might  fall  in  artis- 
tic qualities.  This  was  the  week  during  which 
Claude  was  occupied  in  the  preparation  of  his  pa- 
per for  the  Geographical  Society;  but  in  spite  of  his 
being  so  busy,  he  found  time  to  pay  more  than  one 
visit  to  The  Knoll.  His  were  business  visits,  he 
was  careful  to  explain.  Yes,  it  was  necessary  for 
him  to  see  that  the  backgrounds  sketched  by  Clare 
at  least  suggested  the  tropics. 

Agnes  stood  by  while  he  made  his  suggestions  at 
these  times,  and  when,  now  and  again,  she  was  ap- 
plied to  for  an  opinion  on  some  point  on  which  the 
others  could  not  make  up  their  mind,  she  gave  her 
opinion — that  was  all  the  part  she  took  in  the  trans- 
action. She  was  beginning  to  be  weary  of  the 
vegetation  of  the  tropics  and  its  adaptability  to 
pictorial  treatment,  though  for  some  years  of  her 
life  she  had  passed  no  day  without  reading  a  page 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 2*9 

or  two  that  had  some  bearing  upon  Central  Africa. 
She  was  startled  as  she  reflected  upon  the  change 
that  had  taken  place  in  her  views  during  a  fortnight. 
She  never  wished  to  see  another  book  on  Central 
Africa.  She  could  not  even  do  more  than  pretend 
to  take  an  interest  in  the  book  which  Claude  was 
about  to  write  and  Clare  to  illustrate. 

Once  as  she  heard  him  describe  to  the  girl  a  scene 
which  he  thought  she  should  be  prepared  to  deal 
with  in  a  picture,  her  mind  went  back  to  the  nights 
when  she  had  awaked  shrieking  from  a  dream  in 
which  she  had  seen  him  lying  dead  in  the  midst  of 
the  savages  v/ho  had  massacred  him  and  his  com- 
panions. She  had  had  such  dreams  frequently 
during  the  months  when  the  newspapers  were 
writing  their  comments  upon  the  disappearance  of 
Westwood  and  his  expedition.  How  feeble  and 
colourless  would  be  the  most  spirited  of  Clare's 
illustrations  compared  to  those  dreams!  She  smiled 
as  she  recalled  some  of  them.  She  wondered  how 
it  was  possible  for  her  ever  to  have  taken  so  much 
interest  in  African  exploration.  It  was  certainly 
not  a  subject  that  many  girls  would  pass  several 
years  of  their  life  trying  to  master. 

Often  when  she  glanced  across  the  room  and  saw 
Claude  there  she  asked  herself  if  it  was  possible 
that  she  still  loved  him. 

She  could  not  answer  the  question.  Her  love  for 
him  had  become  so  much  a  part  of  her  life  she 


230  WELL,  AFTER  ALL- 


could  not  imagine  living  without  it.  She  wondered 
if  women  could  continue  loving  men  who  had 
treated  them  as  he  had  treated  her.  When  she 
thought  over  his  treatment  of  her  she  wondered 
how  it  was  that  she  did  not  hate  him.  She  had 
heard  of  love  turning  to  hatred — hatred  as  immortal 
as  love — and  yet  it  did  not  appear  to  her  that  she 
had  such  a  feeling  in  regard  to  him.  She  seemed 
to  have  settled  down  into  her  life  under  its  altered 
conditions  as  easily  and  as  uncomplainingly  as  if 
she  had  always  looked  forward  to  life  under  such 
conditions. 

It  was  on  the  eve  of  Claude  Westwood's  depart- 
ure for  London  to  appear  before  the  Geographical 
Society,  that  Clare  sat  down  to  the  piano.  She  had 
latterly  neglected  her  singing  in  favour  of  her  draw- 
ing, and  now  only  opened  the  piano  at  the  request 
of  Agnes. 

"What  shall  I  sing?"  she  cried.  "I  feel  just 
now  as  if  I  could  make  a  great  success  at  La  Scala 
— 1  feel  that  my  nerves  are  strung  to  the  highest 
pitch  possible,  though  why  I  should  be  so  is  a 
mystery  to  me.  It  is  not  I  who  have  to  appear  in 
that  big  hall  to-morrow  evening,  and  yet  I  feel  as  if 
I  were  about  to  make  my  debut." 

She  ran  her  fingers  up  and  down  the  keys,  im- 
provising a  succession  of  chords  that  sounded  like 
a  march  of  triumph. 

"I  want  to  sing  something  like  that — something 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 231 

with  trumpets  in  it,"  she  said,  with  a  laugh.  "I 
feel  in  a  mood  for  trumpets  and  drums.  You  heard 
what  Mr.  Westwood  said  about  the  musical  instru- 
ments of  the  Gakennas — that  awful  drum  made  of 
rhinoceros  hide  pared  down  and  stretched  between 
two  branches  ?  What  an  awful  instrument  of  tor- 
ture!" 

"  Shocking,  indeed — nearly  as  bad  as  a  pianoforte 
under  incompetent  hands — probably  worse  than  a 
brass  orchestra  made  in  Germany,"  said  Agnes. 
"  Don't  let  your  song  be  dominated  by  any  influence 
less  cultured  than  Chopin." 

Clare  went  on  improvising,  but  gradually  the 
notes  of  triumph  became  less  pronounced,  and  the 
modulation  was  in  a  minor  key.  In  a  short  time 
the  random  fancies  assumed  a  definite  form ;  but 
it  was  probably  the  chance  playing  of  a  few  notes 
that  suggested  to  her  the  exquisite  "Nightingale" 
theme,  so  splendidly  worked  out  by  her  master — 
the  greatest  of  all  Italians. 

"  You  and  I,  you  and  I, 

Sisters  are  we,  O  nightingale. 
On  the  wings  of  song  we  fly  — 

On  the  wings  of  song  we  sail ; 

When  our  feathered  pinions  fail, 
Floats  a  feather  of  song  on  high 

Light  as  thistledown  in  a  gale. 

You  and  I  the  heaven  will  scale ; 
For  only  song  can  reach  the  sky. 

Only  the  song  of  the  nightingale; 
And  we  are  sisters,  you  and  I," 


2)2  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 

She  fled  away  on  the  wings  of  the  exquisite  song, 
startling  Agnes  with  the  passion  which  she  imparted 
to  every  note — a  passion  that  waxed  greater  with 
every  phrase  until  at  the  close  of  the  stanza  it  be- 
came overwhelming.  The  music  of  the  moon  is 
embodied  in  every  note,  though  the  master  was  too 
artistic  to  make  any  attempt  to  reproduce  the  night- 
ingale's song.  He  knew  that  no  such  attempt 
could  ever  approach  success;  but  he  knew  that  it 
was  within  the  scope  of  his  art  to  produce  upon  the 
mind  the  same  effect  as  is  produced  by  the  song  of 
the  nightingale,  and  this  effect  he  achieved. 

Agnes  listened  with  surprise  at  first,  for  the  girl 
had  never  sung  with  such  abandon  before;  but  at 
the  plaintive  second  stanza — the  music  illustrated 
another  effect  of  the  bird's  singing — she  half-closed 
her  eyes,  and  gave  herself  up  to  the  delight  of 
listening.  At  the  third  stanza — Love  Triumphant, 
the  composer  had  called  it — she  became  more 
amazed  than  before.  The  theme  takes  the  form  of 
a  duet,  as  the  scena  was  originally  arranged  by  the 
composer,  and  now  it  actually  appeared  to  Agnes 
as  if  the  tenor  part  was  being  sung  as  well  as  the 
soprano,  in  the  room — no,  not  in  the  room,  but  in 
the  distance — outside  the  house. 

She  raised  her  head  and  listened  eagerly.  There 
could  be  no  doubt  about  it — some  one  was  singing 
at  the  window  the  tenor  part  of  the  duet, 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

CLARE  was  absorbed  in  her  singing — she  seemed 
to  be  quite  unaware  of  the  fact  that  there  was  any- 
thing unusual  in  the  introduction  of  the  second 
voice — indeed  she  appeared  to  be  unconscious  of 
everything  but  the  realisation  of  the  aims  of  the 
composer. 

Agnes  did  not  make  any  attempt  to  interrupt  her, 
and  the  duet  went  on  to  its  passionate  close.  But 
so  soon  as  the  last  notes  had  died  away,  the  phrase 
was  repeated,  after  a  little  pause,  by  the  singer  out- 
side. 

"  Beating  against  dawn's  silver  door, 

Thy  song  has  fled  over  sea,  over  sea ; 
Morn's  music  to  thee  is  for  evermore  — 
But  what  is  for  me,  love,  what  is  for  me  ?  " 

The  passionate  cry  was  repeated  with  startling 
effect.  But  not  until  the  last  note  had  sounded  did 
Clare  spring  from  her  seat  at  the  piano.  She  stood 
in  the  centre  of  the  room  in  the  attitude  of  an  eager 
listener.  Her  face  was  flushed,  and  her  eyes  were 
still  tremulous  with  the  tears  that  evermore  rushed 
to  them  when  singing  that  song.  She  listened,  but 
no  further  note  came  from  that  mysterious  voice. 
The  night  was  silent. 

The  girl  turned  to  Agnes;  a  little  frown  was  on 
233 


234  WELL,  AFTER  ALL- 

her  face,  but  still  it  was  roseate,  and  she  gave  a 
laugh. 

"I  did  not  think  that  he  could  possibly  be  so 
great  a  fool,"  she  said,  as  if  communing  with  her- 
self. 

"A  fool!"  cried  Agnes.  "Is  it  possible  that  you 
know  who  it  is  that  sang?  I  thought  that  I  was 
dreaming  when  I  first  heard  that  voice;  and  then — 
but  you  know  who  it  is  ?  " 

"He  said  he  would  follow  me  to  England — to 
the  world's  end,"  laughed  Clare.  "Oh,  these  Ital- 
ians have  got  no  idea  of  things — the  serenade  needs 
an  Italian  sky — warmth  and  moonlight  and  the 
scent  of  orange  blossoms,  and  the  nightingale 
among  the  pomegranates.  The  serenade  is  natural 
with  such  surroundings;  but  in  England,  toward 
the  end  of  November — oh,  the  notion  is  only  ridicu- 
lous! He  will  have  a  cold  to-morrow  that  may 
ruin  his  career.  His  tenor  is  of  an  exceptional 
quality,  the  maestro  said:  it  cannot  stand  any  strain, 
to  say  nothing  of  the  open-air  on  a  November  night. 
What  a  fool  he  is!" 

"You  have  not  yet  told  me  what  his  name  is," 
said  Agnes. 

"What?  Surely  I  told  you  all  about  Giro  Ro- 
dani  ?" 

"Some  weeks  ago  you  mentioned  the  fact  that 
you  had  a  friend  of  that  name,  and  that  he  had 
taken  a  part  in  an  opera  produced  some  time  ago, 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 235 

and  sent  you  a  newspaper  with  an  account  of — of 
his  success.  You  did  not  say  that  he  was  still  in 
England." 

"  He  didn't  remain  in  England.  He  was  in  Paris 
when  I  last  heard  of  him.  He  must  have  learned 
from  Signer  Marini  that  1  was  here.  The  maestro 
is  the  only  one  who  knows  my  address.  Oh,  how 
silly  he  has  been!" 

Agnes  threw  herself  back  in  her  chair  and  laughed. 
But  Clare  did  not  laugh — at  first.  On  the  contrary, 
she  flushed  and  frowned,  standing  in  the  middle 
of  the  room.  At  last  she  laughed  in  unison  with 
Agnes,  as  the  latter  said: 

"What  a  pretty  little  romance  I  have  come  upon 
all  at  once!  Ah,  my  dear,  I  wondered  how  it  was 
possible  for  you  to  remain  in  Italy  so  long  without 
making  victims  of  some  of  that  susceptible  nation. 
Poor  Signer  Rodani!  But  it  was  only  natural.  You 
studied  together  the  most  alluring  of  the  arts — he  a 
tenor,  you  a  soprano.  That  is  how  the  operas  are 
cast,  is  it  not  ?  The  tenor  is  invariably  paired  off 
with  the  soprano.  But  alas,  he  is  not  always  such 
a  marvel  of  fidelity  as  your  friend  outside.  By  the 
way,  I  hope  he  is  not  still  in  the  garden.  He  will 
not  form  any  exaggerated  idea  of  English  hospi- 
tality if  we  allow  him  to  remain  outside  on  so  cold  a 
night ;  but  still,  it  is  very  late — too  late  for  a  couple 
of  lone  women  to  entertain  a  visitor,  especially 
when  that  visitor  is  an  operatic  tenor." 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 

"Oh,  he  has  gone  away,  you  may  be  sure,"  said 
Clare.  "Besides,  he  should  know  that  houses  in  this 
country  have  knockers  and  bells.  Why  shouldn't  he 
behave  like  a  civilised  person  though  he  is  a  tenor?" 

"I'm  afraid  that  you've  become  sadly  prosaic 
since  you  arrived  in  England, "  said  Agnes.  ' '  Where 
is  the  romance  in  behaving  like  ordinary  people? 
Knockers  and  bells  are  for  prosaic  people;  the  sere- 
nade and  the  guitar  are  for  operatic  tenors.  I 
shouldn't  wonder  if  your  friend  did  a  little  in  the 
guitar  line  also." 

"He  does  a  great  deal  in  it,"  laughed  the  girl. 
"  Thank  goodness  he  spared  us  the  guitar." 

"The  thought  of  a  young  man  going  out  in  cold 
blood  to  serenade  a  young  woman  on  a  November 
night  is  too  terrible.  I  only  hope  he  does  not  travel 
with  one  of  those  wonderful  silk  rope  ladders 
which  play  so  important  a  part  in  the  lyric  stage." 

"Goodness  only  knows,"  said  Clare,  shaking  her 
head  despondently.  "When  there's  a  romantic 
man  at  large  nobody  can  tell  what  may  happen." 

"Is  it  possible  that  you  do  not  respond  with  the 
least  feeling  of  tenderness  to  such  devotion?"  said 
Agnes.  "Is  it  possible  that  you  have  the  courage 
to  run  counter  to  the  best  established  traditions  in 
this  affair  ?  Think  of  your  duty  as  a  soprano." 

"I  thought  that  I  had  given  him  a  sufficient 
answer  long  ago,"  said  Clare,  frowning.  "He  has 
fancied  himself  in  love  with  a  score  of  the  girls 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 


who  sang  duets  with  him.  Girls,  did  I  say  ?  Why, 
I  heard  that  he  was  continually  at  the  feet  of 
Madame  Scherzo  before  he  saw  me,  and  the  Scherzo 
has  sons  older  than  he  is,  and  besides  —  well,  she 
isn't  any  longer  what  you'd  call  slim." 

"No,  she  wasn't  even  slim  when  I  was  a  girl," 
said  Agnes.  "But,  my  dear,  you  must  remember 
that  a  tenor  is  a  tenor." 

"  Somebody  once  said  that  a  tenor  was  a  malady," 
said  Clare.  "I  do  wish  that  this  particular  com- 
plaint had  remained  in  Milan.  Heavens!  Why 
should  I  be  troubled  with  him  just  when  I  need  to 
give  all  my  thoughts  to  my  work  ?  He  is  sure  to 
come  back  to-morrow,  and  this  time  he  will  ring 
the  bell." 

"  You  can  scarcely  refuse  to  see  him,"  said  Agnes. 
"  But  are  you  really  certain  of  yourself?  Are  you 
sure  that  you  have  no  tender  regard  for  him  ?" 

"I  think  I  am  pretty  sure,"  replied  the  girl.  "I 
never  was  in  the  least  moved  by  his  sighs  and  his 
prayers  —  I  was  only  moved  to  laughter  —  when  he 
wasn't  near,  of  course.  If  I  had  laughed  when  he 
was  present  he  would  have  killed  either  me  or  him- 
self." 

"The  only  way  by  which  a  girl  can  be  certain  that 
she  does  not  love  one  man  is  to  be  certain  that  she 
loves  another,"  said  Agnes.  "  I  wonder  if  Signer 
Rodani  has  a  rival  ?" 

She  glanced  at  Clare's  face:  it  was  blazing.     The 


238  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 


laugh  she  gave  was  a  very  uneasy  one.  Agnes  be- 
came interested.  Seeing  these  signs  she  rose  from 
her  chair,  and  went  across  the  room  to  the  girl,  lay- 
ing her  hands  on  her  shoulders,  and  looking  search- 
ingly  down  into  her  face.  Clare,  however,  declined 
to  meet  her  gaze.  She  only  glanced  up  for  a  sec- 
ond. Then  she  turned  to  one  side  and  laid  a  hand 
on  the  keys  of  the  piano,  pressing  them  down  so 
gently  as  to  produce  no  sound. 

Agnes  laughed  as  she  raised  her  hands  from  the 
girl's  shoulders. 

"  I  am  answered,"  she  said.  "  You  have  told  me 
all  that  your  heart  has  to  tell.  I  will  ask  you  noth- 
ing more.  Oh,  I  wondered  how  it  was  possible  for 
so  sweet  a  girl  as  you  to  escape." 

Clare  sprang  to  her  feet  and  threw  her  arms  about 
the  neck  of  her  friend,  hiding  her  roseate  face  on 
her  shoulder. 

"  I'm  afraid  that  you  have  guessed  too  much,"  she 
whispered.  "  I  did  not  mean  to  confess  anything — 
I  have  not  even  confessed  to  myself;  but  you  took 
me  so  by  surprise.  Please  do  not  say  anything 
about  my  foolishness — it  really  is  foolishness.  You 
will  let  my  secret  remain  a  secret — oh,  you  must, 
my  dear  Agnes;  I  tell  you  truly  when  I  say  that  it 
was  a  secret  even  to  myself,  until  your  question  sur- 
prised me,  so  that  I  could  not  help —  But  I  have 
told  you  nothing— you  will  assume  that  I  have  told 
you  nothing?" 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 239 

"I  will  assume  anything  you  please,  my  dearest 
child,"  said  Agnes.  "  You  may  trust  to  me  to  keep 
your  secret;  I  will  not  refer  to  it,  even  to  yourself. 
But  what  about  the  unhappy  Signor  Rodani  ?  Is  he 
to  return  to  Italy  without  seeing  you  ?  " 

"Oh,  I  will  see  him  at  any  time,"  cried  Clare, 
making  a  gesture  of  indifference  which  she  had  ac- 
quired in  Italy.  "  I  do  not  mind  in  the  least  seeing 
him  face  to  face.  What  have  I  to  fear  from  him  ? 
There  never  was  any  one  so  foolish  as  he  is." 

"I  hope  he  will  find  his  way  to  the  bell-pull," 
said  Agnes;  "although  I  frankly  admit  that  there  is 
much  more  romance  in  approaching  the  object  of 
one's  adoration  by  a  serenade  than  by  a  bell-pull, 
still — I  suppose  he  would  be  shocked  if  I  were  to 
ask  him  to  dine  with  us." 

"Why  should  you  ask  him  to  dine  with  us?" 
said  Clare. 

"Well,  when  a  distinguished  stranger  comes  to 
our  neighbourhood  " — 

"  He  would  only  fancy  if  he  were  asked  to  din- 
ner that  I  had  not  made  up  my  mind.  He  would 
think  that  I  was  merely  coquetting  with  him — that  I 
was  anxious  to  have  him  still  hanging  about ;  and  that 
might  spoil  his  career  in  addition  to  its  being  very 
unpleasant  to  myself.  No,  let  him  come:  I  will 
put  him  out  of  pain  at  once.  I  am  sure  that  is  the 
most  merciful  course  to  pursue  in  regard  to  senti- 
mental lovers  who  are  gifted  with  supersensitive 


340  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 

tenor  organs.  If  poor  Giro  does  not  suffer  from  his 
escapade  to-night  he  may  be  tempted  to  come 
again  upon  a  rainy  night — and  where  would  he  be 
then?" 

"  I  am  sure  that  you  take  the  most  merciful  view 
of  the  case,"  said  Agnes.  "Alas!  that  one  should 
be  compelled  to  talk  of  the  dismissal  of  a  lover  as 
one  talks  about  the  lethal  chamber!  " 

"Oh,  my  dear  Agnes,"  cried  Clare,  "if  you  had 
ever  been  one  of  a  class  of  vocalists  in  Italy  you 
would  not  talk  about  a  little  incident  such  as  this  is, 
as  an  equivalent  to  the  lethal  chamber.  I  wonder 
if  there  are  any  other  employments  that  have  such 
an  effect  upon  the — the — well,  let  us  say  the  nerves, 
as  the  art  of  singing.  My  experience  is  that  a  sing- 
ing class  is  a  forcing  house  of  the  affections.  I 
only  found  out  after  I  had  been  with  the  maestro 
for  two  years,  that  it  was  his  fun  to  throw  all  of  us 
together  so  that  our  wits  might  be  sharpened — that 
was  how  he  put  it.  What  he  meant  was  that  we 
all  sang  best  when  we  were  in  love  with  one  an- 
other. Heaven!  the  scenes  that  I  have  witnessed! 
A  tenore  robusto  used  to  sharpen  his  knife  on  the 
stone  steps  so  as  to  be  ready  to  cut  the  heart  out  of 
the  basso  pro/undo,  who  was  unfortunate  enough 
to  fancy  himself  in  love  with  the  me^o-soprano." 

"What  an  interesting  experience!  But  what  a 
shocking  old  man  your  master  must  have  been!" 
laughed  Agnes. 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 241 

"  Oh,  he  cared  about  nothing  but  to  advance  us  in 
our  knowledge  of  the  art  of  expressing  the  emotions 
by  singing.  How  could  we  know  how  to  interpret 
a  passion  which  we  had  never  felt,  he  used  to 
ask." 

"So  he  encouraged  the  tenor  to  put  a  fine  edge 
on  his  knife,  hoping  that  he  would  have  a  better 
idea  of  interpreting  his  revenge  when  he  had  cut 
the  heart  out  of  the  bosom  of  his  brother  artist? 
Yes,  I'm  afraid  that  though  an  estimable  exponent 
of  the  art  of  vocalism,  your  maestro  was  lacking  in 
some  of  the  finer  principles  of  the  moralist." 

"  He  took  nothing  into  consideration  except  his 
art,"  said  Clare.  "  He  admitted  to  me  that  he  liked 
to  see  his  pupils  miserable,  for  only  then  could  they 
be  depended  on  to  do  justice  to  themselves.  He 
made  mischief  between  young  people  only  that  he 
might  study  them  when  blazing  with  revenge.  He 
has  reproduced  for  me  an  entire  scena  founded  on  a 
lover's  quarrel  that  he  himself  brought  about." 

"  So  cold-blooded  an  old  wretch  could  not  be  im- 
agined!" cried  Agnes.  "And  yet  he  could  com- 
pose so  transcendent  a  theme  as  the  'Nightingale '! 
Oh,  my  dear  Clare,  one  feels  that  this  art  is  a  ter- 
rible thing  after  all." 

"I  feel  that  I  have  wasted  my  time  with  Signer 
Marini,"  said  Clare.  "What  would  I  not  give  now 
to  have  studied  drawing  as  I  studied  singing!" 

"You  are  still  afraid  of  attacking  those  illustra- 


242  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 


tions  ?  I  wonder  how  the  maestro  would  treat 
your  mood  in  his  music?" 

"My  mood  has  been  dealt  with  long  ago,"  cried 
Clare.  "It  is  in  the  opera  of  'Orfeo' — the  despair 
of  Orpheus  when  he  was  longing  for  the  unattain- 
able. Oh,  1  would  make  a  splendid  Orpheus  at  the 
present  moment."  She  almost  flung  herself  down 
on  the  piano  seat  and  struck  a  chord;  but  she  only 
sang  a  phrase  or  two  of  the  marvellous  lament 
"Che  faro  senz'  Eurydice?"  Her  voice  was 
choked.  She  sprang  from  her  seat  and  threw  her- 
self into  the  sympathetic  arms  of  her  friend.  Only 
for  an  instant  did  she  remain  there.  With  a  long 
kiss  and  a  rapid  "Good-night"  she  hurried  from 
the  room. 

Agnes  was  left  alone  to  try  to  put  a  coherent  in- 
terpretation upon  her  mood.  She  commenced  her 
task  with  smiles,  thinking  of  the  sentimental  young 
Italian  who  had  not  shrunk  from  the  attempt  to 
adapt  a  serenade  to  an  English  November;  but 
before  long  her  smiles  had  vanished.  She  sat 
thinking  for  a  long  time;  and  yet  the  whole  sum  of 
her  thoughts  found  no  wider  expression  than  the 
sigh  which  came  from  her.as  she  said: 

"Poor  child!  poor  child!  May  she  never  know 
the  truth!  That  is  my  prayer  for  her  to-night." 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

"He  may  come  at  any  time,"  cried  Clare,  after 
breakfast  the  next  morning.  "But  I  shall  be 
prepared  for  him.  Why  will  men  be  so  foolish  ? 
Why  should  he  follow  me  to  England  in  the 
month  of  November?  Has  he  no  regard  for  his 
voice?  Where  would  he  be  if  he  failed  to  do 
the  C  natural  some  day?  And  yet  he  is  foolish 
enough  to  run  the  risk  of  ruining  his  career 
simply  for  the  sake  of  impressing  me  with  his 
devotion! " 

There  seemed  to  Agnes  to  be  a  note  of  hardness 
in  the  girl's  way  of  speaking  about  her  unhappy 
lover.  Her  intolerance  of  his  devotion  seemed  a 
trifle  unkind. 

"Don't  you  think  that  he  should  have  your 
sympathy,  my  dear?"  she  asked.  "Do  you  fancy 
that  he  is  to  be  blamed  on  account  of  the  short- 
comings in  Signor  Marini's  system  ?  Surely  he  is 
more  to  be  pitied  than  blamed  for  falling  in  love 
with  some  one  who  refuses  to  respond  to  him  ?" 

Clare  made  a  little  impatient  movement,  but  in 
another  second  she  became  penitent,  and  hung  her 
head. 

"I  suppose  I  should  be  sorry  for  Giro,"  she  said, 
243 


244  WELL,  AFTER  ALL- 


mournfully.  "Yes,  I  think  I  do  feel  a  little  pity 
for  him,  in  spite  of  his  sentimental  foolishness. 
Undoubtedly  the  maestro  was  to  blame.  I  know 
that  it  was  he  who  encouraged  the  susceptible  Giro 
in  spite  of  all  that  I  could  say.  But  why  should 
the  foolish  boy  single  me  out  for  his  adoration 
when  he  knew  very  well  that  there  were  four 
soprani  and  three  contralti  in  the  class  who  were 
ready  to  catch  the  handkerchief  whenever  it  might 
please  him  to  throw  it  ?  They  all  worshipped  him. 
I  could  see  it  plainly  when  he  got  upon  his  upper 
register,  with  now  and  again  a  hideous  falsetto  D; 
and  yet  nothing  would  content  him — he  must  lay 
his  heart  at  my  feet.  Those  were  his  words;  don't 
fancy  that  they  are  mine." 

"Even  so,  you  should  not  be  too  hard  on  him," 
said  Agnes.  "Ah,  my  dear  Clare,  constancy  and 
devotion  in  a  man  are  not  to  be  lightly  considered. 
They  may  be  part  of  a  woman's  nature — it  seems  to 
be  taken  for  granted  that  they  are  part  of  a  woman's 
nature;  but  they  certainly  are  no  part  of  a  man's. 
That  is  why  I  am  disposed  to  say  a  good  word  for 
our  friend  with  that  sweet  tenor  voice." 

"What  am  I  to  do?"  cried  Clare.  "I  must 
either  tell  him  the  truth — that  I  am  quite  indifferent 
to  him;  or  make  him  believe  what  is  untrue — that 
I  am  not  without  a  secret  tendresse  for  him. 
Now,  surely  I  should  be  doing  a  great  injustice  to 
him — yes,  and  to  the  score  of  young  women  who 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL-  245 

worship  him — if  I  were  to  encourage  him  to  fancy 
that  some  day  I  might  listen  to  his  prayer." 

"There  is  no  question,  my  Clare,  as  to  what 
course  you  should  pursue,"  said  Agnes.  "All  that 
I  would  urge  upon  you  is  not  to  hurt  him  more 
than  is  absolutely  necessary." 

"You  are  thinking  of  the  lethal  chamber  again," 
said  Clare.  "Never  mind;  what  you  say  is  quite 
true,  and  I  shall  endeavor  to  treat  him  so  gently  that 
he  will  leave  me  feeling  that  he  has  been  compli- 
mented rather  than  humiliated.  After  all,  he  means 
to  pay  to  me  the  greatest  compliment  in  his  power, 
poor  fellow." 

' '  And  you  will  show  him  that  you  appreciate  it  ?  " 

"I  will  do  my  best." 

Before  they  had  had  their  little  chat  the  bell 
sounded. 

"I  knew  that  he  would  become  prosaic  enough 
to  pull  the  bell  like  an  ordinary  mortal,"  said  Clare. 
"Of  course  you  will  remain  by  my  side,  Agnes. 
Even  a  sentimental  Italian  cannot  expect  to  enter  a 
lady's  house  surreptitiously." 

It  was  not,  however,  Signer  Rodani  who  was 
shown  into  the  room,  but  Mr.  Westwood.  He 
was  wearing  a  great  fur  coat,  and  was  actually  on 
his  way  to  the  railway  station.  He  was  to  read  his 
paper  to  the  Society  at  night,  and  had  merely 
looked  in  at  The  Knoll  to  say  good-bye  to  his 
friends. 


246  WELL,  AFTER  ALL- 

This  was  the  explanation  he  offered  to  account 
for  his  visit  at  so  irregular  an  hour.  He  had  under 
his  arm  a  small  case  containing  all  the  trophies 
which  he  had  succeeded  in  bringing  from  the  land 
of  his  captivity — the  small  bow,  the  poisoned 
arrows,  and  the  seeds  of  the  linen  plant.  The  bow 
and  arrows  were  in  a  glazed  case,  which  was 
locked.  The  more  precious  seeds  were  carefully 
wrapped  in  wadding.  Neither  Agnes  nor  Clare  had 
seen  these  trophies  before,  though  Claude  West- 
wood  had  frequently  alluded  to  them  after  that  first 
day  on  which  he  had  spoken  about  his  travels 
through  the  wonderful  forest. 

"I  shall  make  a  very  poor  display  on  the  plat- 
form, I  fear,"  said  he.  "I  remember  the  first 
African  lecture  at  which  I  was  present.  The  ex- 
plorer appeared  on  the  platform  surrounded  by  his 
elephant  rifles,  his  lions'  skins,  his  elephants'  tusks, 
his  rhinoceros'  skulls,  his  countless  antlers.  He 
made  an  imposing  show — very  different  from  what 
I  shall  make  with  my  half-dozen  arrows  and  my 
few  seeds.  I'm  afraid  that  the  people  will  take  me 
for  a  fraud.  The  idea  of  a  man  going  to  Central 
Africa,  and  returning  after  a  nine  years'  residence, 
with  nothing  better  than  these,  will  seem  a  little 
foolish  in  many  people's  eyes." 

Clare  was  indignant  at  the  suggestion  that  any 
one  would  venture  to  underrate  the  achievements  of 
an  explorer  who  had  come  through  the  most  terrible 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL-  247 

parts  of  Africa  with  no  arms  that  would  give  him 
an  advantage  over  the  natives.  And  as  for  the 
trophies,  what  were  all  the  discoveries  of  all  the  ex- 
plorers in  comparison  with  the  seeds  of  the  linen 
plant,  she  asked. 

"I  knew  that  I  could  trust  to  you  to  say  some- 
thing encouraging  to  me,"  cried  Claude.  "That  is 
why  I  could  not  go  up  to  London  without  first 
coming  to  bid  you  good-bye,  and  to  get  you  to 
wish  me  good  luck." 

"Good  luck — good  luck — good  luck!"  said 
Clare,  as  he  wrapped  up  his  case  of  arrows.  "  Of 
course,  we  wish  you  all  the  good  luck  in  the  world; 
the  fact  being  that  our  fortunes  are  bound  up  with 
yours.  Was  it  not  Agnes  and  I  who  insisted  on 
your  promising  to  write  that  book?" 

"  I  am  quite  content  that  you  should  look  on  our 
fortunes  as  bound  up  together,"  said  he,  slowly  and 
with  curious  emphasis.  "Our  fortunes  are  bound 
up  together" — he  had  taken  her  hand,  and  con- 
tinued holding  it  while  he  was  speaking.  "Our 
fortunes — what  is  my  fortune  must  be  yours." 

"That  is  quite  true,  for  am  not  I  your  illus- 
trator ?  "  cried  Clare.  "  The  book  will  be  a  success, 
and  no  matter  how  bad  the  pictures  may  be,  they 
will  be  part  of  a  successful  book." 

He  looked  at  her  for  a  few  moments  and  then  said 
good-bye  to  her  and  Agnes.  Agnes  had  not  opened 
her  lips  throughout  the  interview.  She  could  not 


248  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 


help  thinking,  as  she  watched  him  go  down  the 
drive,  of  the  marvellous  change  that  had  come  over 
him  since  the  day  of  his  return  to  Brackenshire — the 
day  when  he  had  paid  her  that  visit  during  which 
he  had  been  able  to  talk  of  nothing  except  the  man 
who  had  murdered  his  brother.  A  few  weeks  had 
been  sufficient  to  awaken  the  ambition  which  she 
had  thought  was  dead.  It  seemed  to  her  that  he 
had  just  left  the  room,  saying  the  very  words  that 
he  had  spoken  years  before: 

"  I  will  make  a  name  worthy  of  your  acceptance." 

She  stood  at  the  window  of  the  room  so  lost  in 
her  own  reflections  that  she  did  not  hear  the  ringing 
of  the  bell  or  the  announcement  of  the  new  visitor. 
She  only  became  aware  of  the  fact  that  Clare  was 
talking  to  some  one  in  the  room.  She  supposed 
that  Claude  had  returned  for  some  purpose,  and  was 
quite  surprised  to  see  the  half-bent  figure  of  an 
under-sized  man,  who  wore  an  exceedingly  neat 
moustache,  and  a  tie  with  long  flying  ends. 

He  remained  for  a  long  time  in  the  attitude  of 
some  one  giving  an  exaggerated  parody  of  an  over- 
polite  foreigner. 

"This  is  Signor  Rodani,"  said  Clare:  and  the 
young  man  straightened  himself  for  a  second,  and 
bowed  once  again,  even  lower  than  before.  And 
now  he  had  both  his  hands  pressed  together  over 
the  region  of  his  heart.  Agnes  felt  as  if  she  were 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL-  249 

once  again  in  the  act  of  taking  a  lesson  from  her 
dancing  master.  It  seemed  a  poor  thing  after  such 
a  flourish  to  inquire  if  Signor  Rodani  found  the  day 
cold. 

She  spoke  in  French,  that  being  the  language  in 
which  Clare  had  presented  him.  The  young  man 
bowed  once  again — this  was  the  third  time  to 
Agnes's  certain  knowledge,  though  she  fancied  he 
must  have  indulged  in  more  than  a  nod  before  she 
had  become  aware  of  his  presence — and  begged 
leave  to  assure  Madame — he  called  her  Madame — 
that  the  weather  was  very  charming.  She  then 
ventured  to  remark  that  now  and  again  in  Eng- 
land the  latter  days  of  November  were  fine,  and 
then  inquired  if  he  meant  to  winter  in  England;  at 
which  he  gave  a  slight  start,  and  Agnes  felt  sure 
his  lips  shaped  themselves  to  pronounce  the  word 
"Diable!"  He  did  not  utter  the  word,  however; 
he  only  gave  a  smile  and  a  shrug,  and  said  that  a 
winter  in  England  was  not  in  his  mind  at  that  mo- 
ment; still — it  depended. 

She  interpreted  his  smile  and  his  shrug  into  a  sort 
of  acknowledgment  that  if  it  were  made  worth  his 
while  he  might  even  be  induced  to  consider  the 
possibility  of  his  wintering  in  England. 

She  then  saw  him  looking  imploringly  but  po- 
litely at  Clare,  and  it  occurred  to  her  that  the  sooner 
he  was  left  alone  for  the  girl  to  explain  to  him 
whatever  matters  might  stand  in  need  of  an  expla- 


250  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 

nation,  the  more  satisfactory  it  would  be  to  every 
one.  So  without  telling  him  how  greatly  she  had 
enjoyed  his  singing  of  the  tenor  part  in  the  "Night- 
ingale "  duet  the  previous  evening,  she  made  a  very 
feeble  excuse  for  leaving  the  room.  She  had  an 
idea  that  Signer  Rodani  would  not  be  severely  ex- 
acting in  regard  to  the  validity  of  her  excuses:  he 
would  be  generous  enough  to  accept  as  ample  any 
pretext  she  might  offer  for  leaving  him  alone  with 
Clare. 

When  he  straightened  himself  after  bowing  her 
to  the  door,  he  allowed  Agnes  to  perceive  that 
Clare  was  certainly  a  full  head  taller  than  he  was. 

For  the  next  quarter  of  an  hour  any  one  passing 
the  drawing-room  door  might  have  heard  the  sound 
of  a  duet  (parlando)  being  delivered  in  the  musical 
Italian  tongue  within  that  room.  As  a  matter  of 
fact  some  impassioned  phrases  made  themselves 
heard  all  over  the  house.  Then  there  was  heard  a 
quick  opening  of  the  door;  a  few  words  of  bitter 
but  highly  musical  upbraiding,  sounded  in  a  man's, 
though  not  a  very  manly,  voice,  and  before  the 
bulter  had  time  to  get  to  the  hall-door  the  hall-door 
was  opened,  and  Agnes  saw  the  figure  of  Signor 
Rodani  on  the  drive.  He  was  hurrying  away  with 
a  considerable  degree  of  impetuosity,  and  he  held  a 
brilliant  coloured  handkerchief  to  his  eyes. 

"He  is  gone,"  said  Clare,  when  Agnes  returned 
to  the  room  in  the  course  of  the  next  half-hour. 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 251 

"I  saw  him  on  the  drive,"  said  Agnes.  She 
noticed  that  Clare  kept  her  head  carefully  averted 
for  some  time;  but  when  she  happened  to  glance 
round,  Agnes  saw  that  she  had  been  weeping. 
The  handkerchief  of  Signor  Rodani  was  not  the 
only  one  that  had  been  requisitioned  for  the  pur- 
pose of  removing  the  traces  of  tears.  She  was 
pleased  to  observe  that  little  tint  of  red  beneath 
the  girl's  lashes:  it  told  her  that  she  was  not  so 
hard-hearted  as  she  had  tried  to  make  Agnes  be- 
lieve. 

"He  is  gone,  so  that  nothing  further  need  be 
said  about  him,  except  that,  if  he  gets  within  ob- 
serving distance  of  the  Maestro  Marini  within  the 
next  week  or  so — 1  suppose  it  will  take  a  few 
weeks  to  bring  him  to  himself  again — he  may  make 
the  good  maestro  aware  of  some  of  the  shortcom- 
ings in  the  working  of  his  system,"  said  Agnes. 

"1  wonder  it  never  occurred  to  us  to  go  up  to 
London  to  hear  the  paper  read  at  the  Geograph- 
ical Society  to-night,"  said  Clare;  and  Agnes  was 
startled  at  the  suddenness  with  which  she  flung 
aside  Signor  Rodani  as  a  topic  and  began  to  talk  of 
Mr.  Westwood. 

"We  could  scarcely  go  without  an  invitation, 
and  Mr.  Westwood  certainly  never  offered  to  pro- 
cure tickets  for  us,"  said  Agnes. 

When  they  had  nearly  finished  their  dinner  that 
night,  the  French  clock  on  the  bracket  chimed  the 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 

half  hour.  Clare  dropped  the  spoon  with  which 
she  was  eating  her  jelly. 

"Half-past  eight;  he  will  be  beginning  to  read 
his  paper  now,'!  she  said.  "  How  I  wish  1  were  at 
the  Albert  Hall!  I  can  hear  the  people  cheering 
him — I  suppose  they  will  cheer  him,  Agnes  ?  " 

"If  you  can  hear  them  cheering,  my  dear,  you 
may  take  it  for  granted  they  are  cheering  him," 
said  Agnes,  smiling  across  the  table  at  her. 

Clare  laughed. 

"Oh  yes,  they  will  cheer,"  she  said. 

"I  daresay  they  are  about  it  now,"  said  Agnes. 
"  I  don't  quite  know  how  long  the  people  as  a  rule 
keep  up  their  enthusiasm  to  the  cheering  point  in 
regard  to  a  man  who  has  achieved  something.  I 
believe  they  have  been  known  to  cheer  a  great  sol- 
dier for  an  entire  month  after  his  return  from  add- 
ing a  country  about  the  size  of  France  to  the  Em- 
pire. They  may  cheer  Mr.  Westwood,  although 
he  has  been  at  home  for  more  than  a  month.  I 
don't  think,  however,  that  he  would  have  been 
wise  to  keep  in  seclusion  for  many  more  days.  An 
Arctic  traveller  who  is  likely  to  turn  up  shortly  will 
soon  shoulder  him  aside." 

"Oh,  Arctic  exploration  is  a  very  poor  thing 
compared  with  African,"  said  Clare.  "What  good 
was  ever  got  by  going  to  the  North  Pole,  I  should 
like  to  know?" 

"  The  person  who  went  very  close  to  it  made  as 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 253 

much  money  during  the  year  after  his  return  as 
should  keep  him  very  comfortably  for  the  rest  of 
his  days,  I  hear,"  said  Agnes.  "The  North  Pole 
did  him  some  good,  if  his  excursion  was  a  complete 
failure  from  a  scientific  standpoint.  However,  the 
people  cheered  him  for  coming  back  safe  and 
sound,  and  I  think  that  for  the  same  reason  you 
may  assume  that  they  are  cheering  Mr.  Westwood 
at  the  present  moment." 

And  so  they  were.  The  London  newspaper 
which  was  received  the  next  morning  made  at  least 
that  fact  plain.  Clare  was  waiting  at  the  hall  door 
to  receive  it  from  the  hand  of  the  messenger  from 
the  book-stall,  and  she  was  tearing  off  the  cover  as 
Agnes  came  down  the  stairs  to  breakfast,  and  before 
the  coffee  had  been  poured  out  Clare  had  found  the 
series  of  headings  that  marked  the  report  of  Mr. 
Westwood's  lecture,  delivered  in  the  Royal  Albert 
Hall,  at  the  invitation  of  the  Royal  Geographical 
Society. 

"  Here  it  is,"  she  cried.  "  '  Mr.  Westwood  at  the 
Albert  Hall — Thrilling  Narrative — the  Hebrew  Ritual 
in  Central  Africa — The  Linen  Plant.'  But  they  only 
give  three  columns  to  the  lecture  while  they  have 
devoted  seven  to — to — you  will  not  believe  it — but 
there  is  the  heading:  'The  Chancellor  of  the  Ex- 
chequer on  Bimetallism '—just  think  of  it — Bimetal- 
lism !  As  if  any  one  in  the  world  cares  a  scrap 
about  Bimetallism!  Seven  columns!  What  a  fool- 


254  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 


ish  paper!  But  the  cheers  were  all  right.  'The 
intrepid  explorer  on  coming  forward  was  greeted 
by  enthusiastic  cheers  from  the  large  and  distin- 
guished audience  who  had  assembled  to  do  him 
honour.  Several  minutes  elapsed  before  Mr.  West- 
wood  was  permitted  to  proceed  with  his  paper.' 
Oh,  we  were  not  mistaken;  the  cheers  were  all 
right." 
"Your  coffee  will  be  cold,"  remarked  Agnes. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

SOME  days  had  passed  before  Claude  Westwood 
was  able  to  return  to  the  Court.  He  seemed  now 
to  be  as  anxious  for  publicity  as  on  his  landing  in 
England  he  had  been  to  avoid  it.  He  was  daily  with 
Messrs.  Shekels  &  Shackles  completing  his  arrange- 
ments with  them  for  the  production  of  his  book, 
so  as  to  preclude  the  need  for  another  visit  until  he 
had  written  the  last  page  of  the  manuscript.  He 
did  not  want  to  be  disturbed,  he  said,  while  engaged 
at  the  work;  and  Messrs.  Shekels  &  Shackles  cordi- 
ally agreed  with  him  in  thinking  that  he  should  be 
allowed  to  give  all  his  attention  to  the  actual  writ- 
ing of  his  narrative,  without  being  worried  by  any 
of  the  technical  incidents  of  presenting  it  in  book 
form  to  the  public. 

They  urged  upon  him  the  advisability  of  losing 
no  moment  of  time  in  settling  down  to  his  work. 
Already  a  valuable  month  had  been  thrown  away, 
they  reminded  him ;  and  although,  happily,  the  re- 
ports from  the  North  were  to  the  effect  that  the 
winter  had  set  in  with  such  severity  as  to  make  it 
practically  impossible  for  Mr.  Glasnevin,  the  Arctic 
explorer,  to  free  himself  from  his  ice-prison  before 
the  spring,  so  that  his  formidable  rivalry  would  not 
255 


256  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 


interfere  with  the  popularity  of  Mr.  Westwood, 
still  they  had  heard  that  another  gentleman  might 
be  expected  any  day  from  the  Amazon.  This 
gentleman,  in  addition  to  a  narrative  of  two  years' 
residence  among  the  Indians  of  the  Pampas,  would, 
it  was  reported,  be  able  to  give  the  public  photo- 
graphs of  the  injuries  which  had  been  inflicted  on 
him  by  his  captors,  who  were  known  to  be  the 
most  ingenious  torturers  in  the  world.  They  feared 
that  if  this  gentleman  got  home  during  the  winter 
his  arrival  would  seriously  interfere  with  the  sale  of 
Mr.  Westwood's  baok.  They  could  only  hope, 
however,  that  the  Foreign  Office  would  take  up  the 
case  of  the  traveller  at  the  Amazon,  for  that  would 
mean  the  indefinite  postponement  of  his  liberation, 
so  that  Mr.  Westwood  would  have  the  field  to 
himself. 

Without  waiting  to  say  whether  or  not  he  took 
the  same  bright  and  cheery  view  of  the  freezing 
in  of  the  Arctic  explorer  or  of  the  operation  of  the 
British  consular  system  in  regard  to  the  tortured 
gentleman  in  South  America,  Mr.  Westwood 
promised  to  do  his  best  for  his  optimistic  if  anxious 
publishers,  and  so  departed. 

He  regretted,  however,  that  he  could  not  see  his 
way  to  dictate  to  a  shorthand  writer  a  dozen  or  so 
interviews  with  himself  which  could  be  judiciously 
distributed  among  the  newspapers  at  intervals,  so 
as  to  keep  his  name  prominently  before  a  public 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 257 

who  are  ever  ready  to  throw  over  one  idol  for 
another. 

It  was  probably  his  strong  sense  of  what  was  due 
to  his  publishers,  that  caused  him  to  hasten  to  The 
Knoll  on  the  very  day  of  his  return  to  Brackenshire. 
It  was  perfectly  plain  from  the  comments  on  his  lec- 
ture, which  had  already  appeared  and  were  appear- 
ing daily  in  the  newspapers,  that  the  discoveries 
made  by  him  in  Central  Africa  had  become  the 
topic  of  the  hour.  Why,  even  Brackenhurst  had 
awakened  to  find  that  a  famous  man  was  residing 
in  its  neighbourhood,  and  when  one's  native  place 
is  brought  to  acknowledge  one's  fame,  which  all 
the  rest  of  the  world  is  talking  about,  one  may 
rightly  feel  that  one  is  famous.  Therefore,  as 
Mr.  Westwood  explained  to  Agnes  and  Clare,  it 
was  necessary  for  him  to  start  upon  his  book  at 
once. 

He  wasted  as  much  time  explaining  this  as  would 
have  been  sufficient  to  write  a  chapter;  and  in  the 
end  he  did  nothing  except  invite  them  to  dine  at 
the  Court  on  the  following  night,  in  order  that  they 
might  talk  more  fully  on  the  question  of  the  need 
for  haste. 

"  Do  you  think  that  it  is  necessary  to  waste  time 
discussing  the  advisability  of  not  wasting  time?" 
asked  Agnes;  and  immediately  Clare  turned  her 
large  eyes  reproachfully  upon  her;  there  was  more 
of  sorrow  than  reproach  in  Claude's  eyes  as  he 


258  WELL,  AFTER  ALL- 


looked  at  her.  She  met  their  eyes  without  chang- 
ing colour. 

"Oh,  of  course,  I  know  that  I  am  quite  outside 
the  plans  of  you  workers,"  she  continued.  "  It  is 
somewhat  presumptuous  for  me  to  assume  the 
position  of  your  adviser  on  a  purely  literary  ques- 
tion, so  I  shall  be  very  happy  to  dine  at  the  Court." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Claude.  "I  have  been  out 
of  touch  for  so  long  with  English  society  I  have  al- 
most forgotten  their  traditions;  but  I  don't  think 
that  I  am  wrong  in  assuming  that  no  work  of  any 
importance,  either  charitable  or  social,  can  be  begun 
without  a  dinner.  Now,  without  venturing  to  sug- 
gest that  our  work — Clare's  and  mine — is  one  of 
supreme  importance,  I  do  not  think  that  it  would 
be  wise  for  us  to  ignore  the  custom  which  tradition 
has  almost  made  sacred — especially  when  it  is  in 
sympathy  with  our  own  inclinations.  We'll  take 
care  not  to  bore  you,  Agnes,"  he  added.  "I  met 
Sir  Percival  Hope  just  now,  and  he  promised  to  be 
of  our  party." 

"Now!"  cried  Clare,  in  a  tone  that  seemed  to 
suggest  that  Agnes  could  not  possibly  have  further 
ground  for  objection. 

Agnes  raised  her  hands. 

"I  am  overwhelmed  with  remorse  for  having 
made  any  suggestion  that  was  not  quite  in  keeping 
with  your  inclinations,"  she  said. 

She  and  Clare  accordingly  drove  to  the  Court  on 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 359 

the  next  evening,  and  found  Sir  Percival  in  one  of 
the  drawing-rooms  talking  to  his  host  on  the  sub- 
ject of  the  recent  poaching  in  the  coverts  of  the 
Court  and  also  on  Sir  Percival's  property.  The 
poachers  were  getting  more  daring  every  day,  it 
appeared,  and  Ralph  Dangan's  vigilance  seemed 
overmatched  by  their  cunning  so  far  as  Sir  Percival's 
preserves  were  concerned.  Sir  Percival  said  that 
his  new  gamekeeper  accounted  for  the  recent  out- 
break on  the  ground  that  neither  of  the  proprietors 
had  displayed  the  sporting  tastes  of  the  previous 
holders  of  the  property,  and  the  poachers  thought 
it  a  pity  that  the  pheasants  should  become  too  nu- 
merous. 

Claude  smiled  as  Sir  Percival  made  him  acquainted 
with  his  late  gamekeeper's  theory. 

"It  is  very  obliging  on  their  part  to  undertake 
the  thinning  down  of  my  birds,"  said  he,  "and  if  I 
could  rely  on  their  discretion  in  the  matter  all  would 
be  well.  I  am  afraid,  however,  that  one  cannot 
take  their  judgment  for  granted;  so  that  whenever 
Dangan  thinks  that  our  forces  should  be  joined  to 
make  a  capture  of  the  gang,  I'll  give  instructions 
for  my  keepers  to  cooperate  with  him." 

At  dinner,  too,  the  conversation,  instead  of  flow- 
ing in  literary  channels,  was  never  turned  aside 
from  the  question  of  poaching  and  poachers.  Sir 
Percival's  experiences  in  Australia  had  no  more 
changed  his  views  than  Claude  Westwood's  ex- 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL- 


periences  of  Central  Africa  had  altered  his,  on  the 
subject  of  the  English  crime  of  poaching. 

Agnes  had  not  been  within  the  house  since  the 
week  preceding  the  tragedy  that  had  taken  place  in 
the  grounds  surrounding  it.  She  had  had  no  idea 
that  she  would  be  so  deeply  affected  on  entering 
the  drawing-room.  But  the  instant  she  found  her- 
self in  the  midst  of  the  beautiful  old  furniture  that 
had  been  familiar  to  her  for  so  many  years,  she 
was  nearly  overcome  by  the  crowd  of  recollections 
that  were  brought  back  to  her.  She  put  out  her 
hand  nervously  to  a  sofa  and  grasped  the  back  of 
it  for  an  instant  before  moving  round  it  to  seat  her- 
self. 

She  felt  herself  staggering,  but  hoped  that  no  one 
had  noticed  her  apprehension,  and  when  she  had 
seated  herself  she  closed  her  eyes.  It  seemed  to 
her  that  she  was  in  a  dream.  She  heard  the  sound  of 
voices,  but  not  the  voices  of  any  one  present,  only 
the  voices  of  those  who  were  far  away;  and  it 
seemed  to  her  that  among  them  was  the  Claude 
Westwood  whom  she  had  known  and  loved  so 
many  years  ago.  She  had  suddenly  become  pos- 
sessed of  the  strange  dream  fancy  that  the  man 
who  had  taken  her  hand  on  her  entering  the  room 
was  the  man  who  had  killed  both  Dick  Westwood 
and  his  brother  Claude. 

Happily  the  conversation  was  only  about  the 
poachers,  so  that  she  could  not  be  expected  to  take 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 261 

part  in  it;  and  during  the  five  minutes  that  elapsed 
before  dinner  was  announced,  she  partly  recovered 
herself.  But  the  shiver  which  came  over  her  when 
she  opened  her  eyes  was  noticed  by  Clare. 

"What,  you  are  cold  ?  "  she  whispered.  "  Come 
to  the  fire;  you  can  pretend  to  be  pointing  out  the 
carving  of  the  mantel  to  me." 

Agnes  shook  her  head  and  smiled.  She  knew 
that  just  at  that  moment  she  had  not  strength  to 
walk  to  the  fireplace,  and  she  did  not  under-esti- 
mate  her  own  powers;  when,  however,  the  butler 
appeared  at  the  door,  and  Claude  came  in  front  of 
her,  she  was  able  to  rise  and  walk  into  the  dining- 
room  by  his  side. 

After  dinner  Clare  showed  the  greatest  possible  in- 
terest in  the  drawing-rooms  and  their  contents,  and 
Agnes,  who  was,  of  course,  familiar  with  every- 
thing, told  her  much  about  the  furniture  and  the 
pictures.  For  a  century  and  a  half  the  Westwoods 
had  been  a  wealthy  family,  and  many  treasures  had 
been  accumulated  by  the  successive  owners  of  the 
Court.  But  there  was  one  picture  on  an  easel  which 
Agnes  had  not  seen  before.  It  was  a  portrait  of 
Dick  Westwood,  and  it  had  been  painted  by  a  great 
painter. 

Agnes  and  Clare  were  standing  opposite  to  it 
when  Claude  and  Sir  Percival  entered  the  room; 
they  had  only  remained  for  a  few  minutes  over  their 
wine.  Claude  came  behind  Agnes,  saying: 


262  WELL,  AFTER  ALL  — 

"  You  did  not  see  that  until  now  ?  I  am  sure  that 
it  is  an  excellent  likeness,  and  the  face  is  not,  after 
all,  so  different  from  poor  Dick's  as  1  remember  him." 

"It  is  a  perfect  likeness,"  said  Agnes.  "But  I 
cannot  understand  how  you  got  it.  It  is  not  the 
sort  of  portrait  that  could  be  painted  only  from  a 
photograph." 

"  He  did  not  tell  you  that  he  was  giving  sittings 
to  the  painter  when  he  was  last  in  London  ?  "  said 
Claude. 

"  He  never  mentioned  it,"  said  Agnes. 

"I  brought  it  with  me  from  the  painter's  studio 
the  day  before  yesterday,"  said  Claude.  "  He  wrote 
to  me  the  day  before  I  left  for  London,  explaining 
that  Dick  had  given  him  a  few  sittings  in  May,  and 
had  promised  to  return  to  the  studio  in  July.  He 
said  he  should  like  me  to  see  the  portrait  in  its  un- 
finished condition.  Judge  of  my  feelings  when  I 
found  myself  facing  that  fine  work.  I  carried  it 
away  with  me  at  once."  Then  he  turned  to  Clare, 
saying,  "Look  at  it;  it  is  the  portrait  of  the  best 
fellow  that  ever  lived — that  ever  died  by  the  hand 
of  a  wretch  whom  he  had  never  injured — a  wretch 
who  is  alive  to-day." 

Agnes  moved  away  from  the  picture  with  Sir 
Percival;  but  Clare  remained  by  the  side  of  Claude 
looking  at  the  face  on  the  easel. 

"  How  you  loved  him!  "  Agnes  heard  her  say  in  a 
low  voice. 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 26) 

"Loved  him — loved  him!"  said  Claude  West- 
wood.  He  gave  a  little  laugh  as  he  took  a  step  or 
two  away  from  the  picture.  "  Loved  him!  I  love 
him  so  dearly  that " — 

Agnes  looked  with  eager  eyes  across  the  room. 
She  waited  for  Clare  to  say  a  word  of  pity  for  the 
man  whose  life  had  been  spared,  who  had  been 
given  time  to  repent  of  his  dreadful  deed,  but  that 
word  remained  unspoken. 

For  the  second  time  that  evening  a  shiver  went 
through  Agnes.  Sir  Percival  watched  her  as  she 
watched  the  others  across  the  room.  There  was  a 
long  interval  of  silence  before  Claude  began  to  talk 
to  the  girl  in  a  low  voice,  and  shortly  afterwards 
went  with  her  through  the  portiere  that  divided  the 
two  drawing-rooms. 

"  I  want  Clare  to  see  the  picture  of  Dick  and  my- 
self taken  when  he  was  ten  and  I  was  eight — you 
know  it,  Agnes,"  he  said,  as  he  followed  Clare. 
The  next  minute  the  sound  of  his  voice  and  Clare's 
came  from  the  other  room. 

Sir  Percival  had  been  examining  the  case  contain- 
ing the  poisoned  arrows  which  lay  on  a  table;  but 
now  he  stood  before  Agnes. 

"You  have  seen  it,"  he  said.  "I  know  that  you 
have  seen  it  as  well  as  I.  Is  it  too  late  to  send  her 
away  ?" 

Agnes  started. 

"It  cannot  be  possible  that  you,  too,  know  it," 


264  WELL,  AFTER  ALL- 

she  said.  "Oh  no;  you  cannot  have  become  ac- 
quainted with  that  horrible  thing." 

"  I  must  confess  that  I  never  suspected  it  before 
this  evening,"  said  he.  "But  what  I  have  seen 
here  has  been  enough  to  tell  me  all  that  there  is  to 
be  told." 

She  stared  at  him  in  silence  for  a  few  moments. 

"  What  have  you  been  told  ?"  she  asked  at  last. 

"You  cannot  have  failed  to  learn  the  truth,"  said 
he.  "You  cannot  have  failed  to  see  that  Claude 
Westwood  is  in  love  with  that  girl." 

With  a  little  cry  she  had  sprung  to  her  feet  and 
grasped  his  arm. 

"No,  no;  not  that — not  that!"  she  whispered. 
"Oh  no;  that  would  be  too  horrible!" 

"  It  is  horrible  to  think  that  a  man  can  forget  all 
that  he  has  forgotten.  Good  heavens!  After  eight 
years !  Was  ever  woman  so  true  ?  Was  ever  man 
so  false  ?  " 

"I  have  been  blind — blind!  Whatever  I  may 
have  thought,  I  never  imagined  this.  He  met  her 
aboard  the  steamer — he  must  have  become  attached 
to  her  before  he  saw  her  with  me." 

She  was  speaking  in  a  low  voice  and  without 
looking  at  him.  He  remained  silent.  She  walked 
across  the  room  with  nervous  steps.  Several  times 
she  passed  and  repassed  the  picture  on  the  easel,  her 
fingers  twitching  at  the  lace  of  her  dress. 

Gradually  then  her  steps  became  firmer  and  more 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 265 

deliberate.  The  sound  of  a  rippling  laugh  came 
from  the  other  room.  She  stopped  suddenly  in  her 
restless  pacing  of  the  floor.  She  looked  at  the  por- 
trait on  the  easel,  and  after  a  short  space,  she  too 
laughed. 

"  It  is  a  just  punishment!  "  she  said.  "  He  loves 
her  and  she  loves  another — she  confessed  it  to  me. 
He  will  be  punished,  and  no  one  will  pity  him." 

Then  Clare  reappeared  in  the  arch  from  which 
the  curtain  had  been  drawn,  and  Claude  followed 
her. 

Agnes  glanced  first  at  the  girl,  then  at  the  man. 
She  looked  toward  Sir  Percival  and  smiled. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

IT  seemed  to  her  that  there  was  something  mar- 
vellously appropriate  in  the  punishment  which  was 
to  be  his,  and  she  would  not  stretch  out  a  hand  to 
avert  it.  He  who  had  made  her  to  suffer  for  her 
constancy  to  him  was  about  to  suffer  for  his  cruelty 
to  her.  Her  love  had  brought  suffering  to  her,  and 
it  was  surely  the  justice  of  Heaven  which  had  de- 
creed that  his  new  love  was  to  mean  suffering  to 
himself. 

She  could  not  feel  the  least  pity  for  him ;  on  the 
contrary,  she  felt  ready  to  exult  over  him — to  laugh 
in  his  face  when  the  blow  had  fallen  upon  him. 
She  felt  that  she  should  like  to  see  him  crushed  to 
the  earth — overwhelmed  when  he  fancied  that  his 
hour  of  triumph  had  come.  Only  this  night  did  the 
desire  to  see  him  punished  take  possession  of  her. 
She  wondered  how  it  was  that  she  had  been  so 
patient  in  the  face  of  the  wrong  which  he  had  done 
to  her.  When  she  had  flung  down  and  trampled 
on  the  ivory  miniature  of  him  which  had  stood  on 
her  table,  she  had  wept  over  the  fragments,  and  the 
next  day  she  had  been  filled  with  remorse.  She  had 
seen  him  many  times  since  that  day,  but  no  re- 
proach had  passed  her  lips,  for  no  reproach  had 
been  in  her  heart.  She  had  merely  thought  of  him 

266 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 267 

as  having  ceased  to  love  her  whom  he  had  promised 
to  love.  But  now  when  she  stood  alone  in  her 
room,  knowing  that  he  had  not  merely  forsaken  her 
but  had  come  to  love  another  woman,  her  hands 
clenched  and  her  heart  burned  with  the  desire  of 
revenge. 

A  few  hours  before,  she  had  been  shocked  by  his 
desire  to  be  revenged  upon  the  wretch  who  had 
killed  his  brother;  but  she  did  not  think  of  this  as 
she  paced  her  room  in  the  sway  of  that  sudden  pas- 
sion which  had  come  to  her.  She  felt  exultant  in 
the  thought  of  his  coming  humiliation.  It  was  the 
justice  of  Heaven  overtaking  him.  She  would 
laugh  in  his  face  when  the  blow  fell  upon  him. 

An  hour  had  transformed  her.  She  had  flung  her 
patience  and  her  forbearance  to  the  winds.  She 
hated  herself  for  the  folly  of  her  fidelity  all  those 
years ;  but  she  did  not  think  of  Clare  with  any  feel- 
ing of  jealousy.  On  the  contrary,  she  felt  that  the 
girl  was  an  ally.  Without  Clare  the  man  would 
escape  all  punishment;  but  with  her  as  an  ally  he 
would  be  crushed. 

She  was  too  excited  to  sleep  when  at  last  she  got 
into  bed.  The  rush  of  this  new,  strange  passion 
carried  her  along,  and  she  experienced  that  positive 
pleasure  of  yielding  to  it,  which  a  release  from  all 
trammels  of  civilisation  brings  for  a  time  to  most 
people  of  a  healthy  nature.  She  had  in  a  moment 
been  released  from  the  strain  which  she  had  put 


268  WELL,  AFTER  ALL- 


upon  herself  for  so  long.  She  felt  that  she  was  a 
woman  at  last — a  woman  carried  along  by  the  most 
natural  of  woman's  impulses:  a  passion  for  re- 
venge. After  all,  such  constancy  as  had  been  hers 
was  an  agony  and  not  a  pleasure.  Claude  West- 
wood  had  spoken  the  truth :  it  should  be  taken  for 
granted  that  after  the  lapse  of  a  certain  time  the 
validity  of  a  promise  made  in  love  ceased. 

She  told  him  so  much  the  next  day,  when  he 
called  at  The  Knoll  to  see  Clare.  The  girl  had  gone 
to  Brackenhurst  to  try  to  obtain  some  materials  in 
which  she  had  found  her  store  deficient — a  special 
sort  of  tracing  paper,  the  need  for  which  Claude 
had  told  her  of  on  the  previous  evening. 

Agnes  noticed  how  his  face  clouded  when  he 
learned  that  Clare  was  not  in  the  house.  She  won- 
dered how  it  was  that  she  had  never  before  seen 
signs  of  his  new  attachment.  A  few  minutes  had 
been  sufficient  to  make  Sir  Percival  acquainted  with 
the  truth.  And  yet  it  was  generally  assumed  that 
in  such  matters  women  were  much  more  sensitive 
than  men.  Could  it  be  that  the  womanliness  in  her 
nature  had  been  blunted  by  her  unnatural  constancy  ? 

This  was  her  sudden  thought  on  noticing  the  dis- 
appointment on  his  face. 

"You  will  wait  for  her?"  she  said.  "She  has 
been  gone  some  time;  she  is  sure  to  return  very 
shortly.  Brackenhurst  has  not  so  many  shops  as 
should  occupy  her  for  long." 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 269 

"Perhaps  I  had  better  wait,"  said  he.  "I  want 
to  make  a  start  upon  the  book.  My  shorthand 
writers  are  coming  to  me  to-morrow." 

"  They  will  save  you  a  great  deal  of  trouble,  I  am 
sure,"  said  Agnes.  Their  conversation  could  not 
be  too  commonplace,  she  thought.  "You  will  take 
a  seat  near  the  fire  ?  I  am  so  sorry  that  Clare  is 
out." 

There  was  a  considerable  pause  before  he  said : 

"After  all,  perhaps  it  is  as  well  for  her  to  be  out. 
The  fact  is,  my  dear  Agnes,  I  have  been  wishing  to 
— to — well,  to  have  a  chat  with  you  alone  about 
Clare — yes,  and  other  matters.  The  present  is  as 
good  an  opportunity  as  I  am  likely  to  have." 

"  What  can  you  possibly  want  to  say  to  me  ?  " 
said  Agnes,  raising  her  eyebrows. 

"  What  ?  Well,  apart  from  the  fact  that  you  and 
1  were  once — nay,  we  are  still  the  best  of  friends,  I 
think  it  but  right  to  tell  you  that  I — I — oh,  what  a 
strange  thing  is  Fate!  " 

"Is  it  not?"  said  Agnes,  with  a  little  smile. 
"  Yes,  I  have  often  wondered  that  that  remark  was 
not  made  by  some  one  long  ago.  Perhaps  it  was." 

The  note  of  sarcasm  was  scarcely  perceptible  in 
her  words;  and  yet  it  seemed  as  if  he  detected  it. 
He  gave  a  quick  glance  toward  her;  but  she  looked 
quite  serious. 

"  Was  it  not  Fate  that  brought  her  here  after  I 
fancied  I  had  seen  her  for  the  last  time  ?"  said  he. 


370  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 

"Would  it  not  save  you  a  great  deal  of  trouble 
— a  good  deal  of  stoic  philosophy,  if  you  were 
to  come  to  the  point  at  once  and  tell  me  that 
you  fell  in  love  with  Clare  Tristram  when  you 
were  sailing  down  the  Mediterranean  with  her  by 
your  side,  that  you  were  overjoyed  to  see  her  here, 
and  that,  although  quite  six  weeks  have  passed, 
your  constant  heart  has  not  changed  in  its  affection 
for  her?  Is  not  that  what  you  mean  to  say  to 
me?" 

"What,  have  I  worn  my  heart  upon  my  sleeve?" 
he  said,  giving  a  little  laugh.  "  Have  you  read  my 
secret  ?  " 

"  Your  secret?  Do  you  really  fancy  that  there  is 
any  one  in  this  neighbourhood  to  whom  your  secret 
is  still  a  secret?  I'm  convinced  that  the  servants 
have  been  talking  about  nothing  else  for  the  past 
fortnight.  Jevons,  the  butler,  is  too  well  trained  to 
give  any  sign,  but  you  may  depend  upon  it  that  the 
housemaids  nudge  each  other  every  time  you  call. 
You  see,  they  know  that  you  cannot  possibly  be 
calling  to  see  me,  and  therefore  they  assume— 
Psha!  what's  the  need  to  talk  more  about  it  ?  I  can 
understand  everything  there  is  to  be  understood  in 
this  matter,  except  why  you  should  come  to  tell 
me  about  it.  What  concern  is  it  of  mine  ?" 

He  looked  at  her  rather  reproachfully.  He  was 
not  accustomed  to  hear  her  talk  in  such  a  way.  She 
had  accustomed  him  to  gentleness  and  words  in 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 271 

which  there  was  no  tone  of  reproach.  He  felt  dis- 
appointed in  her  now. 

"I  felt  sure  that  you  would  be  at  least  interested 
in— in"  — 

"In — shall  we  call  it  the  wondrous  workings  of 
Fate  ?  If  you  think  that  I  am  not  interested  in  Fate 
you  are  greatly  mistaken." 

"I  don't  like  to  hear  you  talk  in  that  strain, 
Agnes.  It  jars  upon  me.  You  were  always  so 
gracious — so  sweet." 

"  How  do  you  know  what  I  was?" 

"Cannot  I  remember  you  long  ago  ?" 

"  I  do  believe  we  did  meet  now  and  again  before 
you  left  England.  What  a  memory  you  have,  to 
be  sure! " 

He  rose  from  his  chair  and  stood  beside  her. 

"My  dear  Agnes,"  he  said,  "I  remember  all  the 
past.  Were  ever  any  two  people  so  unfortunate  as 
we  were  ?  I  have  often  wondered  if  we  were  really 
in  love  with  each  other.  I  know  that  I,  for  one, 
fancied  that  we  were.  If  all  had  gone  well  and  I 
had  returned  at  the  end  of  the  year  I  meant  to  spend 
at  the  Zambesi,  we — well,  we  might  have  got 
married.  But,  of  course,  it  would  be  absurd  to 
fancy  that,  after  so  many  years  ...  as  I  told 
you  when  I  returned,  we  are  physically  different 
people  to-day  from  what  we  were  some  years  ago, 
and  in  affairs  of  the  heart  nature  decrees  that  there 
is  a  Statute  of  Limitations.  It  would  be  cruel,  as 


272  WELL,  AFTER  ALL- 

well  as  unjust,  for  a  man  to  hold  a  woman  to  a 
campact  made  nearly  nine  years  before — made,  be 
it  remembered,  by  practically  a  different  woman 
with  a  different  man.  That  is  why  I  regarded  you 
as  free  from  every  obligation  to  me.  If  you  had 
got  married  after  I  had  been  absent  for  two  years, 
do  you  fancy  that  I  would  have  blamed  you  ?  Oh 
no;  I  have  too  strong  a  sense  of  what  is  just  and 
reasonable." 

"Will  you  sell  your  book  at  thirty-two  shillings 
for  the  two  volumes  ?  "  she  asked  after  a  long  pause. 
"I  read  in  some  paper  the  other  day  that  people 
will  pay  thirty  shillings  for  a  book,  if  they  want  it, 
quite  as  readily  as  they  will  pay  ten." 

He  was  too  startled  to  be  able  to  reply  to  her. 
The  inconsequence  of  her  question  was  certainly 
startling.  After  the  lapse  of  a  minute,  however,  he 
had  sufficiently  recovered  himself  to  be  able  to  say: 

"Yes,  I  believe  that  thirty-two  shillings  will  be 
the  published  price.  Personally  I  cannot  under- 
stand how  people  should  want  to  buy  the  book  in 
such  numbers  as  will  make  it  pay;  but  I  suppose 
Shekels  &  Shackles  are  the  best  judges  of  their  own 
business." 

He  thought  that,  on  the  whole,  he  had  reason  to 
be  satisfied  at  the  result  of  their  interview.  He  had 
for  some  days  an  uneasy  feeling  that  before  he 
could  confess  to  Clare  that  he  loved  her,  he  should 
make  a  further  attempt  to  explain  to  Agnes — well, 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 273 

whatever  there  was  left  for  him  to  explain.  He 
had  now  and  again  felt  that  it  might  actually  be 
possible  that  she  expected  him  to  regard  the  com- 
pact made  between  them  nearly  nine  years  before, 
as  still  binding  on  him.  This  would,  of  course,  be 
rather  absurd  on  her  part;  but,  however  absurd 
women  and  their  whims  might  be,  they  were 
capable  at  times  of  causing  men  a  good  deal  of  an- 
noyance; and  thus  he  had  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  it  would  be  wise  for  him  to  have  a  few  words 
of  reasonable  explanation  with  her.  He  had  great 
hopes  that  she  would  be  amenable  to  reason;  she 
had  always  been  a  sensible  woman,  her  only  lapse 
being  in  regard  to  this  matter  of  fancying — if  she 
did  fancy — that  in  love  there  is  no  Statute  of  Limi- 
tations. 

Now  and  again,  however,  he  thought  that  per- 
haps he  was  doing  her  an  injustice  in  attributing  to 
her  such  a  theory.  She  might,  after  all,  look  on  the 
matter  from  the  same  standpoint  as  he  did;  still,  he 
thought  it  might  be  as  well  to  define  as  fully  as  he 
could  his  views  in  regard  to  their  relative  positions. 

Well,  a  very  few  minutes  had  been  sufficient  for 
his  purpose,  and  here  he  was,  talking  with  a  light 
heart  about  the  peculiarities  of  the  public  in  the 
matter  of  book-buying. 

He  had  not  exhausted  this  interesting  topic  when 
Clare  appeared,  ready  to  take  her  instructions  re- 
garding the  first  of  the  illustrations  which  she  was 


274  WELL,  AFTER  ALL- 

to  draw.  He  had  long  ago  described  to  her  so 
thoroughly  the  characteristics  of  several  of  the  wild 
tribes  among  whom  he  had  lived,  she  could  have  no 
difficulty  in  dealing  with  some  of  the  scenes 
pictorially.  He  jotted  down  for  her  the  particulars 
of  the  various  incidents  which  he  thought  should  be 
illustrated,  and  within  half  an  hour  she  was  hard  at 
work. 

When  he  called  the  next  day  he  was  delighted 
with  the  progress  which  she  had  made.  She 
worked  in  a  bold,  free  style  which  was  certainly 
very  effective,  and  he  was  unable  to  suggest  any 
alteration  in  her  pictures  of  the  natives.  So  well 
had  she  remembered  his  instructions  that  she  had 
never  once  confused  the  head-dresses  of  the  Subaki 
warriors  with  those  of  the  Aponakis.  He  told  her 
that  in  the  morning  she  would  receive  from  one  of 
his  secretaries  the  type-written  copy  of  the  chapters 
which  he  had  already  dictated  to  the  shorthand 
writers.  For  the  remainder  of  the  day  he  would  be 
in  the  hands  of  his  cartographer,  for,  as  a  matter  of 
course,  the  volumes  were  to  contain  maps  of  those 
portions  of  the  interior  which  he  had  discovered. 

Agnes  watched  him  leaning  over  her  lovingly  as 
she  worked  at  one  of  her  drawings.  She  watched 
him  and  smiled.  She  knew  that  the  more  deeply  he 
fell  in  love  with  the  girl,  the  greater  would  be  the 
blow  that  he  should  receive  when  she  told  him  that 
she  loved  another  man.  Only  once  the  thought  oc- 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 275 

curred  to  her  that  perhaps  Clare  might  be  carried 
away  by  constant  association  with  him,  and  by  the 
glamour  of  the  countless  newspaper  articles  that  ap- 
peared on  the  subject  of  his  work  as  an  explorer; 
so  when  they  were  going  upstairs  that  night  she 
said: 

"You  made  a  very  pretty  confession  to  me  a  few 
days  ago,  my  Clare." 

"A  confession  ?" 

"On  the  day  you  were  visited  by  your  friend, 
Signor  Rodani." 

"Oh!" 

The  girl's  face  had  become  rosy  in  a  moment. 

"Does  your  heart  remain  faithful  ?  You  do  not 
think  you  are  likely  to  change  ?" 

''Oh,  never,  never!"  cried  Clare.  "I  may  be 
foolish,  but  if  so,  I  must  remain  foolish.  Ah,  my 
dear  Agnes,  my  confession  was  forced  from  me — I 
spoke  on  the  impulse  of  the  moment;  but  I  was  not 
the  less  certain  of  myself." 

"  I  think  you  are  a  girl  to  be  depended  on,"  said 
Agnes.  "You  are  not  one  of  those  whose  fancies 
change  with  every  new  face  that  comes  before 
them.  Good-night,  my  dear  child." 

She  was  now  assured  of  his  punishment.  As  she 
thought  of  the  way  he  had  come  to  her,  smiling  as 
he  repeated  that  phrase  which  he  had  invented — it 
had  become  quite  a  favorite  phrase  with  him — that 
about  the  Statute  of  Limitations  in  affairs  of  love, 


276  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 

she  felt  that  no  punishment  could  be  too  great  for 
him.  He  had  talked  of  Fate  in  extenuation  of  his 
faithlessness.  She  had  heard  of  people  throwing 
all  the  blame  that  was  due  to  themselves  upon 
Fate.  When  a  pretty  face  comes  between  a  man 
and  his  duty  he  calls  it  Fate  and  yields  without  a 
struggle. 

Well,  he  would  soon  find  out  that  Fate  had  not 
yet  done  with  him. 

Two  days  later  Clare  got  a  letter  from  him  asking 
her  if  she  would  see  him  immediately  after  lunch. 
He  had  got  some  technical  instructions  to  give  to 
her  from  the  publishers;  but  he  had  been  so  closely 
occupied  with  his  secretaries,  he  had  not  been  able 
to  call  at  The  Knoll  the  previous  day. 

Immediately  after  lunch  Agnes  found  it  necessary 
to  go  in  haste  to  the  village;  so  that  Clare  was  left 
alone  in  the  room  which  had  been  turned  into  a 
studio. 

When  Agnes  returned  in  a  couple  of  hours,  she 
found  the  girl,  not  in  the  studio,  but  in  the  drawing- 
room.  The  wintry  twilight  had  almost  dwindled 
away.  The  room  was  nearly  dark.  The  gleam  of 
a  white  handkerchief  drew  her  eyes  to  the  sofa, 
upon  which  Clare  was  lying,  her  face  upon  one  of 
the  cushions. 

"Why,  what  on  earth  is  the  matter?"  she  cried. 
"Why  are  you  lying  there  ?  What— tears  ?  " 

Clare  sprang  to  her  feet,  touched  her  eyes  once 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 277 

more  with  her  handkerchief,  and  then  flung  it  away. 
In  another  instant  she  was  in  Agnes's  arms. 

"Oh,  my  dearest,"  she  cried,  "I  am  only  crying 
because  I  am  so  happy.  Never  was  any  one  so 
happy  before  since  the  beginning  of  the  world.  He 
has  been  here." 

"Who  has  been  here — Mr.  Westwood?" 

"Of  course.  Who  else  was  there  to  come? 
Who  else  is  worth  talking  about  in  the  world  ?  He 
has  been  here,  and  he  loves  me — he  loves  me — he 
loves  me!  Only  think  of  it." 

"And  you  sent  him  away  ?  " 

"Not  until  I  had  told  him  all  that  was  in  my 
heart." 

"  You  told  him  that  you  loved  another  man  ?" 

"  How  could  I  do  that  ?  How  could  I  tell  him  a 
falsehood?  I  told  him  that  I  loved  him;  that  I  had 
always  loved  him,  and  that  it  would  be  impossible 
for  me  to  love  any  one  else."  • 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

"Now  you  know  why  it  is  I  was  crying,"  said 
Clare,  and  as  she  spoke  she  laughed.  "Oh,  I  am 
crying  because  I  am  the  happiest  girl  in  the  world," 
she  continued.  "Was  there  ever  any  one  so  for- 
tunate in  the  world  ?  I  don't  believe  it.  I  thought 
that  the  idea  of  my  hoping  that  he  would  ever  come 
to  love  me  was  too  ridiculous — and  it  is  ridiculous, 
you  know,  when  you  think  of  it — when  you  think 
of  me — me — a  mere  nobody — and  of  him — him — the 
man  whose  name  is  in  every  one's  mouth.  Ah!  I 
think  it  must  be  some  curious  dream — no,  I  feel  that 
I  have  read  something  like  it  somewhere — there  is  a 
memory  of  King  Cophetua  in  the  story.  Was  he 
here — was  he  really  here  ?  Why  do  you  stare  at  me 
in  that  way  ?  Ah,  I  suppose  you  think  that  I  have 
suddenly  gone  mad?  Well,  I  don't  blame  you. 
The  whole  story  sounds  absurd,  doesn't  it  ?  " 

Agnes  had  taken  a  step  or  two  back  from  the  girl 
and  was  gazing  at  her.  The  expression  that  was 
on  her  face  as  she  gazed  had  something  of  amaze- 
ment in  it  and  something  of  fear.  Her  lips  moved 
as  if  she  were  trying  to  speak;  but  at  first  her  words 
failed  to  come.  When,  at  last,  they  became  audible, 
there  was  a  gasp  between  each  word. 

"You  said — you  told  me — twice — yes,  twice — 
278 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 279 

that  you  loved  some  one  else — some  one —  Oh, 
my  God!  I  never  guessed  that  it  was  he — he" — 

"Why,  who  else  should  it  be?  When  he  came 
beside  me  aboard  the  steamer — yes,  on  the  very  first 
day  we  met — I  knew  that  my  fate  was  bound  up 
with  his." 

"  Fate — Fate — that  was  his  word,  too.     Fate!  " 

"  I  felt  it.  I  felt  that  even  if  he  had  never  thought 
of  me  I  should  still  be  forced  to  follow  him  till  I 
died.  And  how  strange  it  was — but  then,  every- 
thing about  love  is  a  mystery — he  told  me  just  now, 
in  this  very  room,  that  he  had  just  the  same  feeling. 
He  said  he  felt  that  Fate  "— 

"  Ah,  Fate  again — Fate!  " 

"And  why  not?  My  dearest  Agnes,  there  is  a 
good  Fate  as  well  as  an  evil  one.  How  unjust  men 
are!  When  anything  unhappy  takes  place,  they  cry 
out  against  Fate;  but  when  anything  good  happens, 
they  never  think  of  giving  Fate  the  credit  of  it!  We 
are  going  to  change  all  that.  I  have  already  begun. 
I  feel  that  I  could  compose  the  Fate  theme — some- 
thing joyous — ah,  what  did  I  say  the  other  evening  ? 
— something  with  trumpets  in  it — that  is  what  my 
Fate  theme  would  be:  paeans  of  joy  rushing  through 
it." 

"That  is  what  the  lover  thinks,  the  lover  who 
has  not  got  the  eyes  of  Fate — the  eyes  that  see  the 
end  of  the  love  and  not  merely  the  beginning." 

"But  love — love — our  love — can   have  no  end. 


28o  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 


Love  is  immortal;  if  it  were  anything  less  it  would 
cease  to  be  love." 

"Poor  child!  Poor  child!  You  have  fathomed 
the  mystery  of  Fate,  and  now  you  would  fathom 
the  mystery  of  Love.  You  will  tell  me  in  a  few 
minutes  all  there  is  to  be  known  of  Love  and  Fate." 

"My  dearest  Agnes,  your  words  have  a  chill 
about  them,  or  is  it  that  I  am  sensitive  at  this  mo- 
ment? A  whisper  of  an  east  wind  over  a  garden 
of  June  roses — those  were  your  words — I  am  the 
June  roses.  Oh  no;  I  am  not  in  the  least  conceited 
— only  June  roses." 

She  laughed  as  she  made  a  gesture  of  dancing 
down  the  room. 

Agnes's  gesture  was  not  one  of  merriment.  She 
put  her  hands  up  to  her  face  with  a  little  cry  that 
turned  the  girl's  rapture  of  life  to  stone. 

"What — what  can  you  mean?"  she  said,  after  a 
long  silence. 

Agnes  looked  at  her  for  a  moment,  then  turned 
away  from  her,  and  walked  slowly  and  with  bowed 
head  to  the  fire. 

"  Punishment— his  punishment — I  meant  it  to  be 
his  punishment,"  she  whispered.  "  I  did  not  think 
of  her — I  did  not  mean  her  to  share  it — she  is  guilt- 
less." 

She  bent  her  head  down  upon  the  coloured 
marbles  of  the  high  mantelpiece,  and  looked  into 
the  fire. 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL-  281 

Clare  came  behind  her,  laying  a  hand  carelessly 
upon  her  shoulder. 

Agnes  started  and  shrank  from  the  touch  of  her 
hand. 

"  Do  not  caress  me,"  she  said.  "  I  was  to  blame. 
It  was  I  who  should  have  seen  all  that  every  one 
else  must  have  seen;  I  should  have  seen  and  warned 
you.  I  should  have  sent  you  away — taken  you 
away  before  it  was  too  late.  I  should  have  stood 
between  you  and  him.  But  I  was  selfish — blinded 
by  my  own  selfishness." 

"Why  should  you  have  stood  between  us?" 
asked  the  girl,  with  a  puzzled  expression.  "Oh, 
you  cannot  possibly  be  talking  about  him  and  me: 
no  one  in  one's  senses  would  talk  about  standing 
between  us.  Heavens  above!  Ah,  tell  me  that 
you  do  not  mean  him  and  me — to  stand  between 
Claude  and  me  ?  I  warn  you  before  you  speak  that 
nothing  that  lives — no  power  of  life  or  death — shall 
stand  between  us.  If  he  were  to  die  I  should  die 
too.  I  know  what  love  is." 

"  And  I  know  what  Fate  is.  My  poor  child,  my 
poor  child!  You  have  done  no  wrong.  You  are 
wholly  innocent.  If  you  go  away  you  may  still 
save  yourself — yourself  and  him." 

The  girl  laughed  again. 

"For  God's  sake  don't  laugh;  let  me  entreat  of 
you,"  cried  Agnes,  almost  piteously. 

"  My  poor  Agnes,"  said  Clare,  "I  pity  you  if  you 


282  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 

have  any  thought  that  you  can  separate  us  now.  I 
will  not  ask  you  what  is  on  your  mind— what  fool- 
ish notion  you  have  about  a  mesalliance.  Of  course 
I  know  as  well  as  you  can  tell  me  that  yesterday  I 
was  a  nobody;  but  I  am  different  to-day.  I  am  the 
woman  that  Claude  Westwood  loves,  and  if  you 
fancy  that  that  woman  is  a  nobody  you  are  sadly 
mistaken." 

"Child— child— if  you  knew  all! " 

"  I  don't  want  to  know  all — I  don't  want  to  know 
anything,"  said  Clare.  "1  assure  you,  my  dear 
Agnes,  that  I  have  no  curiosity  in  my  nature  on  this 
particular  point.  He  loves  me — that  is  enough  for 
me.  I  don't  want  to  become  acquainted  with  any 
other  fact  in  the  universe.  Any  one  who  fancies 
that — that —  Oh,  my  dear  Agnes,  do  you  really 
suppose  that  Claude  Westwood — the  man  who 
fought  his  way  from  the  clutches  of  those  savages — 
the  most  terrible  in  the  world — the  man  who  fought 
his  way  through  the  long  forest  of  wild  animals, 
deadly  serpents,  horrible  poisonous  unshapely  crea- 
tures never  before  seen  by  the  eye  of  man — and  the 
swamps — a  world  of  miasma,  every  breath  mean- 
ing death — do  you  really  suppose  that  such  a  man 
would  allow  any  power  to  stand  between  him  and 
the  woman  whom  he  loves  ?  Think  of  it— think  of 
the  man  and  what  he  has  done,  and  then  talk  to  me 
if  you  can  of  any  obstruction  lying  in  our  way  to 
happiness," 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 


"  I  pity  you  —  I  pity  you!    That's  all  I  can  say." 

"  You  have  no  reason  to  pity  me.  I  am  the  hap- 
piest girl  in  this  world  —  in  this  world  ?  —  in  any 
world.  Heaven  holds  no  happiness  that  is  greater 
than  mine.  Ah,  my  dearest,  you  have  been  so  kind 
to  me  —  you  and  Fate  —  I  have  no  thought  for  you 
that  is  not  full  of  love.  What  woman  would  do  as 
you  have  done  for  me  ?  Who  would  be  so  kind  to 
a  stranger  —  perhaps  an  impostor  ?  " 

"  I  wish  to  show  my  kindness  now;  that  is  why 
I  entreat  of  you,  with  all  my  soul,  to  leave  this  place 
—  never  to  see  Claude  Westwood  again." 

Clare  was  at  the  further  end  of  the  room,  but 
when  Agnes  had  spoken  she  returned  slowly  to  her 
side. 

"Agnes,"  she  said,  in  a  low  and  serious  voice, 
"Agnes,  if  you  wish  me  to  leave  your  house  I  shall 
do  so  at  once  —  this  very  evening.  You  have  the 
right  to  turn  me  out  —  no,  I  do  not  wish  to  make 
use  of  such  a  phrase.  I  should  say  that  you  have  a 
right  to  tell  me  that  your  plans  do  not  admit  of  my 
being  your  visitor  longer  than  to-night;  and,  believe 
me,  I  will  not  accuse  you  of  any  lack  of  courtesy  or 
kindness  toward  me.  1  shall  simply  go  away.  But 
if  you  tell  me  that  I  am  to  forsake  the  man  who  loves 
me  and  whom  I  love,  I  shall  simply  tell  you  that 
you  know  me  as  imperfectly  as  you  know  him." 

"As  imperfectly  as  1  know  him!"  said  Agnes, 
slowly.  Her  eyes  were  upon  Clare  as  she  spoke; 


284  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 

then  she  went  to  the  window  and  looked  out. 
There  was  a  pause  of  long  duration  before  the  girl 
once  again  moved  to  her  side,  saying: 

"Dear  Agnes,  cannot  you  see  that  in  this  matter 
nothing  that  you  might  do  or  say  could  move  me  ? 
If  you  were  to  tell  me  that  he  is  a  criminal — that  he 
is  the  wickedest  man  living,  I  should  not  change  in 
my  love  for  him." 

"I  pity  you,  with  all  my  soul,"  said  Agnes. 
"And  if  the  time  comes  when  you  will,  with 
bitterness  and  tears,  admit  that  I  warned  you — that 
I  advised  you  to  place  between  you  the  broadest 
and  deepest  ocean  that  flows — you  will  hold  me 
blameless." 

"I  will  admit  that  you  have  done  your  best  to 
separate  us,"  said  Clare,  smiling,  as  she  put  an 
arm  round  Agnes.  Her  smile  was  that  of  an  elder 
sister  humouring  a  younger.  "And  now  we  will 
say  no  more  about  this  horrid  affair,  if  you  please. 
We  shall  be  to  each  other  what  we  were  before 
Claude  Westwood  came  here  to  disturb  us." 

"God  help  you!"  said  Agnes,  suffering  her 
cheek  to  be  kissed  by  the  girl. 

She  went  into  another  room,  and  as  she  went 
she  fancied  that  she  could  hear  Clare  laughing— 
actually  laughing  at  the  idea  of  anything  coming 
between  her  and  love  for  Claude  Westwood.  She 
sank  down  upon  a  sofa  and  stared  at  a  picture  that 
hung  on  the  opposite  wall. 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 285 

"She  will  not  hear  me — she  will  not  hear  me; 
and  now  it  is  too  late  to  make  any  move,"  she  said. 
"I  meant  that  he  should  be  punished,  but  God 
knows  that  I  never  meant  that  his  punishment 
should  be  like  this!  And  she — poor  child!  poor 
child!  Why  should  she  be  punished  ?" 

She  remained  seated  there  for  a  long  time  think- 
ing her  thoughts,  racked  with  self-upbraiding  at 
first,  whispering,  "If  I  had  but  known — if  I  could 
but  have  known!"  But  at  the  end  of  an  hour  she 
had  become  more  calm.  The  darkness  of  the 
evening  obscured  everything  in  the  room  in  which 
she  sat,  but  she  did  not  ring  for  a  light.  It  was  in 
the  darkness  that  she  stood  up,  saying,  as  if  to 
reassure  herself: 

"It  is  not  my  punishment,  but  the  punishment 
of  Heaven  that  has  fallen  on  him.  It  is  not  I,  but 
Heaven,  whose  hand  is  ready  to  strike.  It  is  the 
justice  of  God.  I  will  not  come  between  him  and 
God." 

__She  dined,  as  usual,  face  to  face  with  Clare,  and 
there  was  nothing  in  the  girl's  manner  to  suggest 
that  she  had  taken  in  the  smallest  measure  to  heart 
anything  that  Agnes  had  said.  She  did  not  even 
seem  to  have  thought  it  worth  her  while  to  con- 
sider the  possibility  of  her  warnings  having  some 
foundation.  She  had  simply  smiled  at  them — the 
smile  of  the  indulgent,  elder  sister.  Her  warning 
had  produced  no  impression  upon  her. 


286  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 

She  was  full  of  the  details  of  her  work.  She 
had  not  been  idle  during  the  afternoon,  she  said. 
Oh  no;  every  hour  was  precious.  And  then  she 
went  on  to  tell  of  the  fear  that  had  been  haunting 
good  Mr.  Shackles — the  fear  lest  the  Arctic  winter 
might  be  less  rigorous  than  the  best  friends  of 
Mr.  Westwood  (and  Mr.  Shackles)  could  wish, 
thereby  making  possible  the  return  to  England 
of  the  distinguished  explorer,  who,  it  was  under- 
stood had  been  devoting  all  his  spare  time  and 
tallow  in  the  region  of  ninety  degrees  north  latitude 
— or  as  near  to  it  as  he  could  get — to  the  writing  of 
a  book.  Mr.  Shackles's  dread  was  lest  the  Arctic 
regions  should  shoulder  Central  Africa  out  of  the 
market — a  truly  appalling  cataclysm,  Clare  said, 
and  one  which  should  be  averted  at  any  sacrifice. 

Agnes  listened  to  her,  as  the  doctor  listens  to 
the  prattle  of  the  patient  who,  he  knows,  will  not 
be  alive  at  the  end  of  the  week.  She  listened  to 
her,  making  her  own  remarks  from  time  to  time  as 
usual,  but,  even  when  she  and  Clare  were  left  alone 
together,  alluding  in  no  way  to  the  fact  that  they 
had  had  a  conversation  in  the  afternoon  on  the 
subject  of  Mr.  Westwood. 

The  next  day  Claude  appeared  at  The  Knoll.  He 
did  not  go  through  the  hall  into  the  studio.  He 
thought  it  only  polite  to  turn  into  the  drawing- 
room,  where  the  butler  said  Miss  Mowbray  was  to 
be  found. 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 287 

She  had  scarcely  shaken  hands  with  him  before 
he  said: 

"  Clare  has  told  you  all,  I  suppose?" 

"She  told  me  that  you  had  confessed  to  her  what 
you  confessed  to  me,"  said  Agnes. 

"What  I  confessed  to  you?"  he  repeated  in  a 
somewhat  startled  tone.  "What  I  confessed — 
long  ago  ?" 

"Well,  that  is  not  just  what  I  meant  to  say," 
replied  Agnes.  "  You  confessed  to  me  a  few  days 
ago  that  you  had  fallen  in  love  with  her.  But 
curiously  enough,  the  way  you  took  me  up  serves 
to  lead  in  the  same  direction.  Only  you  were,  of 
course,  a  different  person  altogether  in  those  days: 
we  change  every  seven  years,  don't  we  ?" 

"I  am  the  luckiest  man  alive!"  said  he,  ignoring 
her  disagreeable  reminiscence.  "I  am  no  longer 
young  and  my  adventures  have  told  on  me,  and 
yet — I  am  sure  you  told  her  that  you  considered  me 
the  luckiest  man  living!  " 

"I  told  her  that  if  she  wished  to  be  happy  she 
should  put  an  ocean  between  you  and  herself." 

His  voice  was  full  of  reproach — a  kind  of  grieved 
reproach,  as  he  said: 

"You  told  her  that?  Why  should  you  tell  her 
that?  Is  it  because  of  the  past — that  foolish  past 
of  a  boy  and  girl " — 

"No:  I  was  not  thinking  of  the  past;  it  was  of 
the  future  I  was  thinking,"  she  said. 


288  WELL,  AFTER  ALL. 


"The  future?" 

"Yes;  and  that  is  what  I  am  thinking  of  now 
when  I  implore  of  you  to  leave  her — to  leave  your 
book — everything — and  fly  to  the  uttermost  ends  of 
the  earth  to  escape  the  blow  which  is  about  to  fall 
upon  you." 

"I  am  sorry  that  I  cannot  see  my  way  to  take 
your  advice,"  said  he.  "I  do  not  share  your  fears 
for  the  future.  But  whatever  Fate  may  have  in 
store  for  me,  of  one  thing  I  am  assured:  the  hard- 
est blow  will  seem  as  the  falling  of  a  feather  when 
she  is  beside  me.  I  am  sorry  that  you,  my  oldest 
friend —  But  I  am  sure  that  later  on  you  will 
change  your  views.  No  one  knows  better  than  I 
do  that  such  a  girl  as  she  might  reasonably  expect 
to  have  a  younger  man  at  her  feet;  but  I  think  I 
know  myself,  and  I  am  sure  that  I  shall  be  to  her  a 
sympathetic  husband." 

He  had  gone  to  the  door  while  he  was  speaking. 

"You  will  wish  that  you  had  never  seen  her," 
said  Agnes. 

"Will  you  force  me  to  wish  that  I  had  never 
seen  you?"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice.  He  had  not 
yet  lost  the  tone  of  reproach  which  he  conceived 
to  be  appropriate  to  the  conversation  that  had  origi- 
nated with  her. 

This  last  sentence  stung  her.  For  a  moment  she 
felt  as  she  had  done  on  that  night  when  she  had 
flung  down  his  miniature  and  trampled  on  it.  Her 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL- 289 

face  became  deathly  pale.  But  she  controlled  her- 
self. 

"I  will  answer  that  question  of  yours  another 
time,"  she  said  quietly. 

He  returned  to  her. 

<(  Forgive  me  for  having  said  what  I  did,"  he  cried. 
"I  spoke  thoughtlessly— brutally." 

"  But  I  promise  you  that  I  will  answer  you,  all 
the  same,"  said  she.  "  Clare  is  in  her  studio." 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

IT  seemed  as  if  Clare  had  resolved  to  treat  the 
singular  words  which  Agnes  had  said  to  her  as 
soon  as  she  had  told  her  of  Claude  Westwood's 
confession  and  her  reply,  as  though  they  had  never 
been  uttered.  Whatever  impression  they  produced 
upon  the  girl  she  certainly  gave  no  sign  that  she 
attached  even  the  smallest  amount  of  importance 
to  them.  Her  mood  was  that  of  the  rapturous 
lover  for  some  days.  She  had  never  been  out  of 
temper  since  she  had  come  to  The  Knoll,  except 
for  a  few  moments  after  her  friend  Signer  Rodani 
had  visited  her;  but  she  had  never  been  in  the  rap- 
turous mood  which  now  possessed  her.  Her  life 
was  a  song — a  lover's  song. 

The  labour  of  love  at  which  she  was  engaged 
daily  kept  her  indoors.  Drawing  after  drawing  she 
executed  for  the  book,  and  even  those  task-masters, 
Messrs.  Skekels  &  Shackles,  expressed  themselves 
thoroughly  satisfied  with  the  progress  of  the  book 
and  the  "  blocks."  The  latter  were  found  to  be  ad- 
mirable; in  fact,  the  reproductions  were,  Clare  af- 
firmed, better  than  the  originals.  She  was  not 
mistaken.  Mr.  Shackles  was  acquainted  with  a 
young  artist  of  striking  skill  in  the  art  of  preparing 
effective  "blocks,"  and  he  treated  Miss  Tristram's 
290 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 291 

drawings  with  the  utmost  freedom.  He  regarded 
them  as  an  excellent  and  suggestive  basis  for  really 
striking  pictures,  and  he  took  care  that,  by  the  time 
the  picture  reached  the  "block"  stage,  it  possessed 
some  striking  elements. 

Claude  Westwood  also  seemed  to  think  that  he 
could  scarcely  do  better  than  ignore  the  words  that 
Agnes  had  spoken  to  him  when  he  had  come  to 
her  for  congratulations.  He  made  an  effort  to  re- 
sume his  former  friendly  relations  with  her,  but  he 
never  quite  succeeded  in  his  efforts  in  this  direc- 
tion. Agnes,  he  felt,  did  not  respond  to  him  as  he 
had  expected  she  would,  and  she  gave  him  now 
and  again  the  impression  that  she  still  regarded  their 
relations  as  somewhat  strained.  He  was  obliged  to 
see  Clare  frequently,  and  he  was  too  polite  to  ignore 
the  presence  of  Agnes,  though  she  would  have 
much  preferred  him  to  do  so,  and  he  knew  it.  The 
fact  of  his  knowing  it  made  him  feel  a  little  un- 
comfortable. 

A  week  had  passed  in  this  unsatisfactory  way, 
when  one  afternoon,  Agnes,  having  come  in  from 
her  drive,  sat  down  with  Clare  to  their  tea  and  hot 
cakes.  The  girl  was  not  quite  so  lively  as  she  had 
been  during  the  week,  and  Agnes  noticed  the 
change,  inquiring  the  cause  of  it. 

Clare  coloured  slightly,  and  laughed  uneasily. 

"Somehow  I  feel  a  little  startled,"  said  she. 
"Claude  has  been  here." 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 


"What,  you  consider  that  a  sufficient  explana- 
tion ?  "  said  Agnes. 

Clare  laughed  more  uneasily  still. 

"  He  has  been  saying  something  that  startled  me. 
The  fact  is  that  he—  well,  he  thinks  that  I—  that  he 
—I  should  rather  say  that  we,  he  and  1,  would  com- 
plete the  book  more  satisfactorily  if  we  were— 
You  see,  Agnes  dear,  he  does  not  like  coming  here 
so  frequently;  he  feels  that  he  is  trespassing  upon 
your  patience." 

"  He  is  wrong,  then,''  said  Agnes.  "  But  what  is 
the  alternative  that  he  proposes  ?  " 

"He  thinks  that  we  should  get  married  at  once 
and  go  to  the  Court  together,"  replied  Clare,  in  a 
low  voice. 

"And  what  do  you  say  to  that  proposal?" 

"Well,  you  know,  dearest  Agnes,  it  is  not  six 
months  since  my  dear  mother's  death:  still  —  ah, 
dear,  would  she  not  wish  to  see  me  happy  ?  " 

"  Yes;  but  is  that  saying  that  she  would  wish  to 
see  you  married  ?  " 

"  He  is  coming  to  talk  to  you  about  it  after  dinner 
to-night." 

Clare  spoke  quietly  as  she  rose  from  her  seat  and 
left  the  room. 

He  came  very  late.  Agnes  only  was  in  the  draw- 
ing-room, for  Clare  had  gone  to  her  studio  after  din- 
ner, saying  she  wished  to  finish  one  of  the  pictures. 

He  was  as  uneasy  in  addressing  her  as  Clare  had 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 29 j 

been.  He  began  to  speak  the  moment  he  entered 
the  room.  Agnes  interrupted  him. 

"  You  have  not  yet  seen  Clare,"  she  said. 

"I  have  not  come  to  see  her.  It  is  you  whom  I 
have  come  to  see,"  said  he.  "  The  fact  is,  my  dear 
Agnes  " — 

"  Go  to  her,"  said  Agnes.  "  Go  to  her  and  kiss 
her;  it  will  be  for  the  last  time." 

She  spoke  almost  sorrowfully.  He  was  impressed 
by  the  tone. 

"  For  the  last  time — to-night,  you  mean  to  say," 
he  suggested. 

"  For  the  last  time  on  earth! "  said  she. 

"You  are  mad,"  he  cried,  after  a  pause,  during 
which  he  stared  at  her.  "You  are  mad;  you  do 
not  know  me — you  do  not  know  her." 

"You  will  not  go  to  her?" 

"I  will  not  go  to  her — I  will  not  leave  this  room 
until  you  have  told  me  what  you  mean  by  saying 
these  words.  You  shall  tell  me  what  these  words 
mean — if  they  have  any  meaning." 

"Very  well,  I  will  tell  you.  A  week  ago  you 
said  some  words  to  me.  You  put  a  question  to  me 
which  I  promised  to  answer  at  my  own  time.  You 
said,  '  Will  you  force  me  to  wish  that  I  had  never 
seen  you  ? '  You  said  that  to  me — you — Claude 
West  wood — to  me." 

"I  admit  that  I  was  cruel — I  know  that  I  was 
cruel." 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 


"Oh  no;  you  were  not  cruel.  You  have  shown 
me  since  your  return  that  you  regard  women  as  too 
humble  an  organisation  to  be  susceptible  of  great 
suffering.  You  are  a  scientific  man,  and  one  of 
your  theories  is  that  the  lower  in  the  scheme  of 
creation  is  any  form  of  life,  the  less  capable  it  is  of 
suffering.  You  cleave  your  worm  in  twain  —  there 
is  a  little  wriggle  —  no  more  —  each  half  goes  off 
quite  briskly  in  its  own  way.  You  chop  off  a  liz- 
ard's tail  without  causing  it  any  particular  inconven- 
ience; I  wonder  if  you  think  of  me  as  a  little  better 
than  the  worm,  a  little  higher  than  the  lizard.  How 
could  any  man  say  words  of  such  cruelty  to  a 
woman  whom  he  had  once  promised  to  love,  if  he 
had  not  believed  her  to  be  dead  to  all  sense  of  suf- 
fering?" 

She  stood  before  him  with  her  hands  clenched  and 
her  eyes  flashing;  but  only  for  a  few  moments. 
Then  she  made  a  gesture  of  contempt  —  she  gave  a' 
little  shudder  as  she  turned  away  from  him. 

He  remained  motionless  for  a  brief  space,  then 
went  without  a  word  to  the  door.  The  sound  of 
his  fingers  on  the  handle  caused  her  to  look  round. 

"Don't  go  away  for  a  moment,"  she  said. 
"  You  will  pardon  that  tirade  of  mine,  I  am  sure.  I 
don't  know  how  it  was  forced  from  me.  I  shall 
not  be  so  foolish  again." 

"1  think  1  had  better  go:  you  are  scarcely  your- 
self to-night,"  said  he. 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 395 

"Scarcely  myself?  Well,  perhaps  I  am  not.  I 
must  confess  that  that  outburst  of  mine  surprised 
me.  It  will  not  occur  again,  I  promise  you." 

"  I  think  1  had  better  leave  you." 

He  still  stood  at  the  door.  In  his  voice  there  was 
again  a  tone  of  reproach.  There  was  some  sadness 
in  the  little  shake  of  his  head,  as  though  he  meant 
to  suggest  that  he  was  greatly  pained  at  not  being 
able  to  trust  her. 

His  attitude  stung  her.  She  became  white  once 
more.  She  put  up  her  hand  to  her  throat.  She  was 
making  a  great  effort  to  calm  herself.  Still  it  was 
some  moments  before  she  was  able  to  say: 

"  Very  well,  very  well.  Do  not  come  any  nearer 
to  me.  You  came  to  talk  business.  Continue. 
You  were  about  to  tell  me  that  you  mean  to  go  to 
London  to-morrow  in  order  to  get  the  document 
that  will  enable  you  to  marry  some  one  without  de- 
lay. The  name  of  Claude  Westwood  will  appear 
at  one  part  of  that  document.  What  name  is  to 
appear  beside  yours?" 

"Why  do  you  ask  that?"  he  said,  removing  his 
hand  from  the  handle  of  the  door. 

"In  order  to  prevent  any  mistake,"  said  she. 
"You  have  probably  sent  forward  to  the  proper 
authorities  the  name  of  Clare  Tristram." 

He  was  grave.  He  shook  his  head  sadly,  and 
put  his  hand  upon  the  lock  of  the  door  once  again. 
He  somehow  suggested  that  he  expected  her  to  tell 


296  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 

him  that  it  was  not  the  name  of  Clare  Tristram  but 
of  Agnes  Mowbray  which  should  by  right  be  on  the 
special  licence,  beside  his  name. 

She  took  a  step  toward  him,  as  if  she  were  about 
to  speak  angrily;  but  she  checked  herself. 

"There  is  no  such  person  as  Clare  Tristram,"  she 
said. 

He  gave  a  single  glance  toward  her.  Then  he 
sighed  and  shook  his  head  gently  as  before.  He 
turned  the  handle  of  the  door. 

"Don't  open  that  door,  for  God's  sake!  She  is 
the  daughter  of  Carton  Standish,  who  killed  your 
brother." 

He  did  not  give  a  start  nor  did  he  utter  a  cry  as 
she  whispered  those  words.  He  only  turned  and 
looked  at  her.  He  looked  at  her  for  a  long  time — 
several  seconds.  The  silence  was  awful.  The 
clock  on  the  bracket  chimed  the  second  quarter. 

"My  God!  mad — this  woman  is  mad!"  he  said, 
in  a  whisper  that  sounded  like  a  gasp. 

She  made  no  attempt  to  reply.     He  went  to  her. 

"What  have  you  said?"  he  asked.  "I  don't 
seem  to  recollect.  Did  you  say  anything  ?  " 

"I  stated  a  fact,"  she  replied.  "I  am  sincere 
when  I  say  that  I  would  to  God  it  were  not  true." 

"She— she— my  beloved— the  daughter— it  is  a  lie 
—you  have  told  me  a  lie — confess  that  it  is  a  lie!  " 

"I  cannot,  even  though  you  should  make  your 
fingers  meet  upon  my  arm! " 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 297 

He  almost  flung  her  away  from  him.  He  had 
grasped  her  by  the  wrist.  He  covered  his  face  with 
his  hands.  She  looked  at  her  wrist — the  red  marks 
over  the  white  flesh. 

"I'll  not  believe  it!"  he  cried  suddenly.  "Ag- 
nes, Agnes;  you  will  confess  that  it  is  a  false- 
hood?" 

"Alas!    Alas!"  she  cried. 

"I'll  not  believe  it.  Proofs— where  are  your 
proofs  ?  " 

"  This  is  the  letter  which  she  brought  to  me  from 
her  mother — the  letter  written  by  her  mother  on  her 
deathbed." 

She  unlocked  an  escritoire,  and  took  out  a  letter. 
He  glanced  at  it,  and  gave  a  cry  of  agony. 

"O  God — my  God!  And  I  cursed  him — I  cursed 
him  and  every  one  belonging  to  him! " 

He  threw  himself  into  a  chair  and  bowed  his 
head  down  to  his  hands. 

"I  prayed  that  evil  might  fall  upon  all  that  per- 
tained to  him,"  he  cried.  "My  prayer  has  been 
heard.  The  curse  has  fallen!  " 

"Is  there  any  tragedy  in  life  like  the  answering 
of  a  prayer  ?  I  prayed  for  your  safe  return,  and — 
you  returned." 

She  spoke  without  bitterness.  There  was  no 
bitterness  in  her  heart  at  that  moment. 

There  was  a  long  pause  before  he  looked  up. 

"And  you — you — knowing  all — allowed  us  to  be 


298  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 

together— you  did  not  keep  us  apart.  You  brought 
this  misery  upon  us!  " 

"I  thought  you  were  safe  from  such  a  fate;  it 
was  only  when  we  were  at  the  Court  that  I  learned 
that  you  loved  her;  even  then  I  believed  that  she 
loved  another  man.  When  I  said  those  words  of 
warning  to  you  a  week  ago,  what  was  your  reply 
to  me  ?  '  Do  not  make  me  wish  that  I  had  never 
seen  you.'  Those  were  your  words." 

"  And  what  shall  my  words  be  now  ?  " 

A  little  thrill  went  through  her.  She  turned  upon 
him. 

"You  wish  you  had  never  seen  me?"  she  said, 
her  voice  tremulous  with  emotion.  "  But  if  that  is 
your  wish,  what  do  you  think  is  mine?  Nine 
years — my  God! — nine  years  out  of  a  woman's  life! 
Ruin — you  have  made  my  life  a  ruin!  Was  there 
ever  such  truth  as  mine  ?  Was  there  ever  such 
falsehood  as  yours  ?  Do  you  remember  nothing  of 
the  past  ?  Do  you  remember  nothing  of  the  words 
which  you  spoke  in  my  hearing  in  this  very  room 
nearly  nine  years  ago  ?  '  I  will  be  true  to  you  for 
ever — I  shall  make  a  name  that  will  in  some  degree 
be  worthy  of  you.'  Those  were  your  words  as  we 
parted.  Not  a  tear  would  I  shed  until  you  had 
gone  away,  though  my  tears  were  choking  me. 
But  then— then— oh,  my  God!  what  then?  What 
voice  is  there  that  can  tell  a  man  of  the  agony  of 
a  constant  woman?  The  days,  the  months,  the 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 299 

years  of  that  terrible  constancy!  nights  of  terror 
when  I  saw  you  lying  dead  among  the  wild  places 
of  that  unknown  world — nights  when  a  passion  of 
tears  followed  a  passion  of  prayer  for  your  safety! 
Oh,  the  agony  of  those  long  years  that  robbed  me 
of  my  youth — that  scarred  my  face  with  lines  of 
care!  Well,  they  came  to  an  end,  my  prayer  was 
answered,  you  returned  in  safety;  but  instead  of 
having  some  pity  for  the  woman  who  had  wasted 
her  life  in  waiting  for  you,  you  flung  me  aside  with 
scarcely  a  word,  and  now  you  reproach  me — you 
reproach  me!  Give  me  back  those  years  of  my  life 
that  you  robbed  me  of — give  me  back  my  youth 
that  I  wasted  upon  you — give  me  back  the  tears 
that  I  shed  for  you — and  then  I  will  listen  to  your 
reproaches." 

"I  deserve  your  worst  reproaches,"  said  he,  his 
head  still  bowed  down.  "  I  deserve  the  worst,  and 
you  have  not  spared  me." 

"Ah,  I  have  spared  you,"  she  said.  "I  might 
have  allowed  you  to  marry  the  daughter  of  that 
man,  and  to  find  out  the  terrible  truth  afterwards." 

"  It  is  just  that  I  should  suffer;  but  she — she — my 
beloved — is  it  just  that  she  should  suffer  ?" 

He  had  risen  and  was  walking  to  and  fro  with 
clasped  hands. 

"Alas!  alas!  Her  judgment  comes  from  you. 
It  was  you  yourself  who  repeated  those  dreadful 
words — '  unto  the  third  and  fourth  generation. ' ' 


500  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 

"She  is  guiltless— she  shall  never  know  of  her 
father's  crime." 

He  had  stopped  in  the  centre  of  the  room  and 
was  looking  toward  the  door. 

"She  shall  not  hear  of  it  from  me,"  said  Agnes. 
"  She  shall  at  least  be  spared  that  pain,  in  addition 
to  the  pain  of  parting  from  you." 

"She  shall  be  spared  even  that,"  said  he  in  a  low 
voice. 

"What?" 

"  I  cannot  part  from  her.     It  is  too  late  now." 

"You  do  not  mean  that" — 

"I  mean  that  I  shall  marry  her." 

A  cry  came  from  Agnes  before  he  had  quite 
spoken. 

"Ah,  you  will  not  be  so  pitiless,"  she  said. 
"You  will  not  do  her  that  injustice.  You  will  not 
wreck  her  life,  too." 

"I  will  marry  her,"  said  he  doggedly. 

"You  will  marry  her  to  make  her  happy  for  a 
month — happy  in  a  fool's  paradise — happy  till  you 
begin  to  think  that  the  face  beside  you  may  be  the 
same  as  the  face  that  watched  your  brother  lying  in 
his  blood — that  the  hand  which  you  caress  —  Oh, 
Claude,  cannot  you  see  that  every  day,  every  hour, 
she  could  not  but  feel  that  you  are  nursing  a  secret 
that  separates  you  more  completely  from  her  than 
if  an  ocean  were  between  you  ?  Can  you  hope  to 
keep  that  secret  from  her  ?  Do  you  know  nothing 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 30! 

of  woman  ?  Claude,  she  will  read  your  secret  in  a 
month." 

"  God  help  me,  I  will  marry  her  and  let  the  worst 
come  upon  us!" 

"You  shall  not  do  her  this  injustice  if  I  can  help 
it." 

"You  cannot  help  it." 

"  1  will  tell  her  that  she  is  the  daughter  of  Carton 
Standish;  and  then,  if  she  chooses  to  marry  you, 
she  will  do  so  with  her  eyes  open." 

She  went  to  the  door. 

"No — no;  not  that — not  that,"  he  cried. 

She  opened  the  door  and  called  the  girl's  name. 
He  threw  himself  once  more  down  on  a  chair  and 
bowed  his  head. 

The  answering  voice  of  Clare  was  heard,  and 
then  the  sound  of  her  feet  on  the  oak  floor  of  the 
passage. 

"  You  will  come  here  for  a  few  moments,  Clare," 
said  Agnes,  and  the  girl  entered  the  room. 

He  kept  his  face  bowed  down  almost  to  his  knees, 
as  he  cried: 

"No,  no;  don't  tell  her  that.  Take  her  away;  I 
cannot  look  at  her.  Take  her  away;  tell  her  any- 
thing but  that." 

Clare  gasped.  She  caught  the  arm  which  Agnes 
held  out  to  her. 

"Clare,"  said  Agnes,  "you  must  nerve  yourself 
for  the  worst.  Mr.  Westwood  wishes  to  be  re- 


$02  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 

leased  from  his  engagement  to  you.  He  has  heard 
something;  that  is  to  say,  he  has  come  to  the  con- 
clusion that — that  he  must  leave  this  country  with- 
out delay — in  short,  to-morrow  he  sets  out  for 
Africa  once  more." 

"That  is  not  true! "  cried  Clare.  "  1  can  hear  the 
false  ring  in  your  words.  Claude — Claude,  you  do 
not  mean" — 

"Take  her  away — take  her  away!  I  cannot  look 
at  her.  I  see  him — him  in  the  room." 

The  girl  gave  a  start,  and  looked  from  the  one  to 
the  other.  She  straightened  herself  and  the  expres- 
sion on  her  face  was  one  of  defiance. 

"  Very  well,"  she  said.     "  Yes,  it  is  very  well." 

She  gave  a  long  sigh,  then  a  gasp.  Her  face  be- 
came deathly  white.  She  did  not  fall.  Agnes  had 
caught  her  in  her  arms. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

THE  blow  had  fallen.  His  punishment  had  come, 
and  Agnes,  lying  on  her  bed  that  night,  felt  that  she 
would  have  given  everything  that  she  possessed  to 
avert  it.  If  there  had  been  any  thought  of  revenge 
in  her  heart  originally — and  she  felt  that  perhaps 
there  had  been  some  such  thought  the  moment  that 
Sir  Percival  Hope  had  told  her  what  she  should  have 
seen  for  herself  long  before,  namely,  that  Claude 
Westwood  was  in  love  with  Clare — there  was  now 
nothing  in  her  heart  but  pity  for  the  girl  whom  she 
had  left  sleeping  in  the  next  room. 

She  felt  that  she  had  been  amply  revenged  upon 
the  man  who  had  treated  her  so  cruelly.  She  had 
crushed  him  with  a  completeness  that  would  have 
satisfied  even  the  most  revengeful  of  women.  She 
had  seen  him  flying  from  the  house  without  waiting 
for  the  girl  to  recover  consciousness.  What  finer 
scheme  of  vengeance  could  any  woman  hope  for — 
and  she  had  always  heard  that  women  were  re- 
vengeful— than  that  which  had  been  placed  within 
her  reach  ? 

And  yet  she  lay  awake  in  her  tears,  feeling  that 

she  would  give  up  all  she  had  in  the  world  if  by  so 

doing,  she  could  compass  the  happiness  of  the  man 

who  had  treated  her  so  basely,  and  of  the  girl  who 

3°3 


jo4  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 

had  supplanted  her  in  his  love.  She  felt  that  re- 
venge was  not  sweet  but  bitter. 

When  she  had  been  standing  before  him  in  the 
room  downstairs  and  had  felt  stung  to  the  soul  by 
that  horrible  question  of  his,  "  Will  you  make  me 
wish  that  I  had  never  seen  you?"  she  had  had  a 
moment  of  womanly  pleasure,  thinking  of  the  power 
she  had  to  crush  him  utterly;  but  all  her  passion 
had  amounted  to  no  more  than  was  susceptible  of 
being  exhausted  in  half-a-dozen  phrases.  Her  pas- 
sion of  reproach,  which  found  expression  in  those 
words  that  had  been  forced  from  her,  had  not  lasted 
beyond  the  speaking  of  those  words.  So  soon  as 
they  were  spoken  she  found  herself  face  to  face  not 
with  the  delight  of  revenge,  but  with  the  grief  of 
self-reproach. 

She  was  actually  ready  to  heap  reproaches  upon 
herself  for  having  failed  to  see  within  the  first  hour 
of  the  arrival  of  Clare  that  the  man  loved  her.  How 
was  it  that  she  had  failed  to  see  that  their  meeting 
aboard  the  steamer  had  resulted  in  love  ?  She  felt 
that  she  must  have  been  blinder  than  all  manner  of 
women  to  fail  to  perceive  that  this  was  so.  Was 
she  not  to  blame  for  having  allowed  them  to  be  to- 
gether day  after  day,  while  she  had  in  her  desk  that 
letter  which  told  her  that  no  two  people  in  the  world 
should  be  kept  wider  apart  than  Claude  Westwood 
and  Clare  Tristram  ? 

She  recollected  that  at  first  her  impulse  had  been 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 305 

to  send  the  girl  away;  but  when  she  found  that  she 
and  Claude  were  already  acquainted,  and  that  the 
terrible  secret  was  known  to  neither  of  them,  the 
panic  which  had  seized  her  subsided. 

That  was,  she  felt,  where  she  had  been  to  blame. 
She  should  not  have  wilfully  closed  her  eyes  to 
the  possibility  of  their  falling  in  love.  Even  though 
the  advice  which  Sir  Percival  had  given  to  her — the 
advice  to  wait  patiently  until  Claude's  old  love  for 
her  returned — was  still  in  her  mind,  she  now  felt 
that  if  she  had  been  like  other  women  she  would 
have  foreseen  the  possibility,  nay,  the  likelihood,  that 
Claude  would  come  to  love  the  girl  by  whom  he 
had  clearly  been  impressed. 

She  even  went  the  length  of  blaming  herself  for 
feeling,  as  she  had  felt  on  Sir  Percival's  suggesting 
to  her  that  Claude  had  come  to  love  Clare,  that  it 
was  the  decree  of  Heaven  that  she  should  punish 
the  man  for  his  cruelty  to  her.  She  knew  that  it 
had  been  a  grim  satisfaction  for  her  to  reflect  that 
his  punishment  was  coming.  She  had,  in  her  blind- 
ness, fancied  that  it  was  to  assume  the  form  of  his 
rejection  by  Clare,  and  she  had  hoped  to  see  him 
crushed  as  he  had  crushed  her. 

"Ah,  if  I  had  not  been  so  willing  to  see  him  hu- 
miliated I  might  still  have  had  a  chance  of  averting 
the  blow  which  has  fallen  on  both  of  them — that  is 
the  worst  of  it,  on  both  of  them!  " 

This  was  actually  the  direction  which  was  taken 


306  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 

by  her  self-reproaches  as  she  lay  in  her  tears  with 
no  hope  of  sleep  for  her  that  night. 

She  felt,  however,  that  though  she  had  been  to 
blame  in  some  measure  for  the  catastrophe  which 
had  come  about,  she  could  not  in  the  supreme  mo- 
ment have  acted  otherwise  than  she  had  done. 

Claude  had  said  truly  that  the  girl  at  least  was  in- 
nocent. He  who  a  few  weeks  before  had  attempted 
to  justify  his  thirst  for  revenge  by  quoting  the  awful 
curse  "unto  the  third  and  fourth  generation"  had, 
when  it  suited  him,  talked  about  the  innocence  of 
the  girl — about  the  injustice  of  visiting  upon  her 
head  the  sins  of  her  father.  But  Agnes  knew  that 
she  had  done  what  was  right  in  refusing  to  allow 
him  to  see  Clare  again  unless  to  tell  her  the  truth 
about  her  father. 

The  way  he  had  shrunk  from  her  at  the  moment 
of  her  entering  the  room,  not  daring  even  to  glance 
at  her — the  way  he  had  cried  those  words,  "Take 
her  away,  take  her  away,"  convinced  Agnes  that  she 
had  acted  rightly  and  thi't  she  had  saved  Clare  from 
a  lifetime  of  sorrow.  Eefore  the  end  of  a  month 
he  would  have  come  to  look  at  her  with  horror. 
He  would  seem  to  see  in  her  features  those  of  her 
father— the  man  who  had  crept  behind  Dick  West- 
wood  in  the  dark  and  shot  him  dead. 

But  then  she  began  to  ask  herself  if  she  had  been 
equally  right  in  telling  Claude  Westwood  what  was 
the  true  name  of  Clare.  She  reflected  upon  the  fact 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 307 

that  only  she  knew  that  Clare  was  the  daughter  of 
the  man  Standish,  who  was  undergoing  his  life- 
sentence  of  penal  servitude  for  the  murder  of  Dick 
Westwood.  If  she  had  kept  that  dreadful  secret  to 
herself,  Claude  would  have  married  the  girl,  and 
they  might  have  lived  happily  in  ignorance  of  all 
that  she,  Agnes,  knew. 

Yes,  but  how  was  she  to  be  certain  that  no  one 
else  in  the  world  shared  her  secret  ?  How  was  she 
to  know  that  the  unhappy  woman  who  had  been 
married  to  Carton  Standish,  and  had  in  con- 
sequence become  estranged  from  all  her  friends  in 
England — for  the  man,  though  of  a  good  family, 
had  been  from  the  first  an  unscrupulous  scamp — 
was  right  when  she  had  told  her  in  the  letter,  which 
Clare  had  delivered  with  her  own  hand,  that  no  one 
knew  the  secret  ? 

Perhaps  a  dozen  people  had  recognised  in  Carton 
Standish  the  man  with  whom  the  Clare  Tristram  of 
twenty-two  years  before  had  run  away,  although 
no  one  had  come  forward  to  state  that  the  man  who 
had  been  found  guilty  of  the  murder  of  Mr.  West- 
wood  was  the  same  person.  Agnes  knew  enough 
of  the  world  to  be  well  aware  of  the  fact  that  not 
only  in  Brackenshire  but  in  every  county  in  Eng- 
land the  question  "Who  is  she?"  would  be  asked, 
so  soon  as  it  became  known  that  Claude  Westwood 
had  got  married. 

Claude  Westwood,  the  African  explorer,  was  the 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 


man  on  whom  all  eyes  had  been  turned  for  some 
months,  and  he  could  not  hope  to  keep  his  marriage 
a  secret  even  if  he  desired  to  do  so.  It  would  be 
ouside  the  bounds  of  possibility  that  no  one  should 
recognise  in  the  name  Clare  Tristram  the  name  of 
the  girl  who,  twenty-two  years  before,  had  married 
a  man  named  Carton  Standish;  so  that  even  if 
Agnes  had  kept  her  secret  it  would  eventually  have 
been  revealed  to  Claude,  when  it  would  be  too  late 
to  prevent  a  catastrophe. 

"If  I  had  wished  to  be  revenged  I  would  have 
let  him  marry  and  find  out  afterwards  that  she  was 
the  daughter  of  Carton  Standish,"  cried  Agnes,  as 
she  lay  awake  through  the  hours  of  that  long  night. 
She  felt  that  she  had  some  reason  for  self-reproach, 
but  not  because  she  had  sought  to  be  revenged  upon 
the  man  who  had  so  cruelly  treated  her.  Only  for 
an  hour  had  the  thought  of  revenge  been  in  her 
heart,  and  it  had  not  been  sweet  to  her,  but  bitter. 

Once  she  rose  from  her  bed  and  stole  softly  into 
Clare's  room.  The  girl  was  lying  asleep;  and  the 
light  in  the  room  was  not  too  dim  to  allow  of 
Agnes's  seeing  that  her  pillow  was  wet  with  tears. 
Still,  she  was  now  asleep  and  unconscious  of  any 
trouble.  It  was  Agnes  who  had  been  unable  to  find 
comfort  in  the  oblivion  of  sleep,  and  she  returned 
to  her  bed  to  lie  waiting  for  the  dawn. 

It  stole  between  the  spaces  of  the  blinds,  the  grey 
dawn  of  the  winter's  day—  the  cheerless  dawn  that 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 309 

drew  nigh  without  the  herald  of  a  bird's  song — a 
dawn  that  was  more  cheerless  than  night. 

She  rose  and  went  to  the  window,  looking  out 
over  the  valley  that  she  knew  so  well.  She  saw  in 
the  far  distance  the  splendid  woods  of  Branksome 
Abbey,  Sir  Percival  Hope's  home,  and  somehow  she 
felt  comforted  by  letting  her  eyes  rest  upon  the 
grey  side  of  the  Abbey  wall  which  was  visible  above 
the  trees.  She  had  a  feeling  that  Sir  Percival  might 
be  trusted  to  bring  happiness  into  her  life.  From 
the  first  day  on  which  he  had  come  to  Brackenshire 
she  had  trusted  him.  She  had  gone  to  him  in  her 
emergencies — first  when  she  had  wished  to  have 
Lizzie  Dangan  taken  care  of,  and  afterwards  when 
she  had  wanted  that  large  sum  of  money  which  had 
saved  the  Westwoods'  bank.  He  had  shown  him- 
self upon  both  those  occasions  to  be  worthy  of  her 
trust,  and  then — then  — 

She  wondered  if  he  had  known  how  great  was 
her  temptation  to  throw  herself  into  his  arms  upon 
that  morning  when  he  had  stood  before  her  to  tell 
her  in  his  own  fashion  that  he  loved  her.  Such  a 
temptation  had  indeed  been  hers,  and  though  dur- 
ing the  weeks  that  passed  between  the  arrival  of 
the  telegram  that  told  her  of  Claude's  safety  and  his 
return,  she  had  often  reproached  herself  for  having 
had  that  temptation  even  for  a  moment,  yet  now 
the  thought  that  she  had  had  it  brought  her  com- 
fort. She  thought  of  Claude  Westwood  by  the 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 


side  of  Sir  Percival,  and  she  knew  which  of  them 
was  the  true  man. 

Noble,  honourable,  self-sacrificing,  Sir  Percival 
had  never  once  spoken  to  her  of  his  love  since  that 
morning,  though  he  had  seen  how  she  had  been 
treated  by  the  man  to  whom  she  had  been  faithful 
with  a  constancy  passing  all  the  constancy  of 
women.  So  far  from  speaking  to  her  of  his  love 
for  her,  he  had  done  his  best  to  comfort  her  when 
he  had  seen  that  Claude  on  his  return  treated  her 
with  indifference,  giving  himself  up  to  the  savage 
thoughts  that  possessed  him  —  the  savage  thirst  for 
blood  that  he  had  acquired  among  the  savages. 

She  remembered  how  Sir  Percival  had  told  her 
that  Claude  was  not  himself  —  that  he  had  not  re- 
covered from  the  shock  which  he  had  received  on 
learning  of  the  death  of  the  brother  whom  he  loved 
so  well,  and  that  so  soon  as  he  recovered  she  would 
find  that  he  had  been  as  constant  to  her  as  she  had 
been  to  him. 

It  was  to  this  effect  Sir  Percival  had  spoken,  and 
she,  alas!  had  felt  comforted  in  the  hope  that  she 
would  be  able  to  win  him  back  to  her.  That  had 
been  her  thought  for  weeks;  but  now.  .  .  . 
Well,  now  her  thought  was: 

"  Why  did  I  not  yield  to  that  temptation  to  throw 
myself  into  his  arms  and  trust  my  future  with  him 
on  that  day  when  he  confessed  his  love  to  me?" 

It  was  a  passionate  regret  that  took  possession  of 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 311 

her  for  a  moment  as  she  let  fall  the  curtain  through 
which  she  had  been  looking  over  the  still  grey 
landscape,  with  a  touch  of  mist  clinging  here  and 
there  to  the  sides  of  the  valley,  and  giving  a  sem- 
blance of  foliage  to  the  low  alders  that  bordered  the 
meadows. 

"Why — why — why?"  was  the  question  that 
was  ringing  round  her  while  her  maid  was  brushing 
her  hair.  She  had  ceased  to  think  of  her  constancy 
as  a  virtue.  She  was  beginning  to  yield  to  the  im- 
pression that  only  grief  could  follow  those  who 
elected  to  be  constant,  when  every  impulse  of  Na- 
ture was  in  the  direction  of  inconstancy.  One  does 
not  mourn  for  ever  over  the  dead;  when  a  woman 
has  been  inconstant  in  her  love  for  a  man,  the  man 
is  chagrined  for  a  while,  but  he  soon  consoles  him- 
self by  loving  another  woman. 

Yes,  she  felt  that  Claude  Westwood  had  spoken 
quite  truthfully  and  reasonably  when  he  said  that  in 
affairs  of  the  heart  Nature  had  decreed  that  there 
shall  be  an  automatic  Statute  of  Limitations.  He 
had  spoken  from  experience,  and  to  that  theory — it 
sounded  cynical  to  her  at  first,  but  now  her  expe- 
rience had  found  that  it  was  true — she  was  ready  to 
give  her  cordial  assent.  To  such  a  point  had  she 
been  brought  by  the  bitterness  of  her  experience  of 
the  previous  month,  she  actually  believed  that  she 
wished  she  had  failed  in  her  constancy  to  the  man 
whom  she  had  promised  to  love. 


312  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 

She  was  surprised  to  find  Clare  awaiting  her  in 
the  breakfast-room.  The  girl  was  pale  and  nerv- 
ous, for  Agnes  noticed  how  she  gave  a  start  when 
she  entered.  In  the  room  there  was  a  servant,  who 
had  brought  in  a  breakfast-dish,  but  the  moment 
she  disappeared,  Clare  almost  rushed  across  the 
room  to  Agnes. 

"Tell  me  what  has  happened,"  she  said  implor- 
ingly. "  Something  has  happened — something  ter- 
rible; but  somehow  I  cannot  recollect  what  it  was. 
I  have  the  sensation  of  awaking  from  a  horrible 
dream.  Can  it  be  that  I  fainted  ?  Can  it  be  that  I 
entered  the  drawing-room,  and  that  he  told  you  to 
take  me  away  ?  Oh,  my  God!  If  it  is  not  a  dream 
I  shall  die.  'Take  her  away — take  her  away' — 
those  were  the  words  which  I  recollect,  but  my 
recollection  is  like  that  of  a  dream.  Why  don't  you 
speak,  Agnes?  Why  do  you  stand  there  looking 
at  me  with  such  painful  sadness  ?  Why  don't  you 
speak?  Say  something — something — anything.  A 
word  from  you  will  save  me  from  death,  and  you 
will  not  speak  it!  " 

She  flung  away  Agnes's  hand  which  she  had  been 
holding,  and  threw  herself  on  a  chair  that  was  at 
the  table,  burying  her  face  in  her  hands. 

Agnes  came  behind  her  and  laid  her  hand  gently 
on  her  head.  She  drew  her  head  away  with  a  mo- 
tion of  impatience. 

"I  don't  want  you  to  touch  me!  "  she  cried,  al- 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 313 

most  pettishly.  "I  want  you  to  tell  me  what  has 
happened.  Oh,  Agnes,  he  did  not  cry  out  for  you 
to  take  me  away — that  would  be  impossible — he 
could  never  say  those  words!  " 

She  had  sprung  up  from  the  table  once  more 
and  had  gone  to  the  fireplace,  against  which  she 
leant. 

"  My  poor  child!    My  poor  child!  "  said  Agnes. 

"Do  not  say  that,"  cried  Clare  impatiently. 
"Your  calling  me  that  seems  to  me  part  of  my 
dream.  Good  heavens!  are  we  living  in  a  dream  ?" 

"You  have  been  living  in  one,  Clare;  but  the 
awaking  has  come,"  said  Agnes. 

Clare  looked  at  her  with  wide  eyes  for  more  than 
a  whole  minute.  Her  look  was  so  vacant  that 
Agnes  shuddered.  The  girl  gave  a  laugh  that  made 
Agnes  shudder  again,  before  she  moved  away  from 
the  mantelpiece,  saying: 

"  How  is  it  that  we  haven't  sat  down  to  break- 
fast? I'm  quite  hungry." 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

AGNES  sat  down  to  the  breakfast-table  as  if  noth- 
ing had  occurred,  and  Clare  helped  her  to  some  fish, 
and  put  a  portion  on  her  own  plate,  and  actually 
ate  it  with  some  appearance  of  appetite.  Agnes 
tried  to  follow  her  example,  but  utterly  failed.  She 
could  eat  nothing.  She  thought  she  would  be  able, 
however,  to  drink  her  coffee,  so  she  filled  the  cups, 
and,  as  usual,  placed  one  before  Clare.  But  Clare 
shook  her  head,  saying: 

"I  don't  like  coffee  to-day.  I  somehow  feel  that 
I  cannot  have  anything  to-day  that  I  have  had  on 
other  days.  I  cannot  touch  coffee." 

"Then  I  will  take  it  away,  and  get  you " — 

There  was  a  little  crash.  Clare  had  let  her  knife 
and  fork  fall  upon  her  plate. 

"Those  were  the  words,"  she  cried.  "'Take 
her  away — take  her  away! '  And  I  fancied  that  he 
spoke  them — he — Claude — shuddering  all  the  time 
and  shrinking  away  from  me.''  Then  she  turned 
suddenly  to  Agnes,  saying: 

"Tell  me  the  truth — surely  I  may  as  well  know 
it  sooner  as  later.  Did  he  say  those  words  when  I 
entered  the  room  ?  " 

"Yes,"  replied  Agnes,  judging  rightly  that  Clare 
would  be  less  affected  by  hearing  the  worst  than  if 

3*4 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 315 

she  were  left  in  suspense.  "Yes.  Claude  West- 
wood  said  those  words — then  you  " — 

"Yes,  but  why — why — why?"  cried  the  girl. 
"Why  should  he  say  such  words,  when  only  a 
couple  of  hours  before — 1  don't  think  it  could  have 
been  more  than  a  couple  of  hours  before,  though  if 
you  were  to  tell  me  that  it  was  days  before  I  would 
believe  you — at  any  rate,  hours  or  days,  he  told  me 
that  he  loved  me — yes,  and  that  we  must  get  mar- 
ried at  once.  And  yet  he  said  those  words  ?" 

"Dearest  child,"  said  Agnes,  "you  must  think 
no  more  about  him.  He  should  never  have  entered 
into  your  life.  Have  you  never  heard  of  the  in- 
constancy of  man?" 

"I  have  heard  more  about  the  inconstancy  of 
woman,"  said  the  girl.  "But  even  if  I  had  heard 
that  all  men  are  inconstant  in  love  I  would  not 
believe  that  Claude  Westwood  was  inconstant. 
You  must  tell  me  some  better  story  than  that  if  you 
wish  me  to  believe  you." 

"Inconstant?  Inconstant?  Ah,  if  you  but 
knew,  Clare." 

"I  do  know.  I  know  that  it  is  a  lie.  He  is  a 
true  man.  I  love  him  and  he  loves  me.  It  is  you 
who  are  not  constant  in  your  friendships.  You 
profess  to  care  for  me  " — 

"  It  is  because  I  do  care  for  you  that" 

"  That  you  tell  me  what  is  false  ?  " 

Agnes  burst  into  tears. 


316  WELL,  AFTER  ALL- 


Clare  for  a  moment  was  rebellious.  The  effect 
of  the  anger,  under  the  impulse  of  which  she  had 
made  use  of  those  bitter  words,  supported  her;  but 
in  another  moment  she  was  on  her  knees  beside 
her  friend,  with  an  arm  round  her  waist,  while  she 
covered  her  hand  with  kisses. 

"Forgive  me,  forgive  me  for  my  cruelty,  my 
dearest  Agnes,"  she  whispered.  "Ah,  my  dearest, 
you  are  the  only  friend  I  have  in  the  world,  and 
what  have  I  said  to  you?  You  will  forgive  me  — 
you  know  that  I  am  not  myself  to-day — that  I  do 
not  know  what  I  say!  " 

Agnes  put  down  her  face  to  the  girl's  and  kissed 
her.  It  was  some  time,  however,  before  she  could 
speak,  and  in  the  meantime  Clare  was  sobbing  in 
her  arms. 

What  was  Agnes  to  say  to  comfort  her  ?  What 
words  could  she  speak  in  her  ears  that  would 
soothe  her  ?  She  could  only  express  the  thought 
which  was  nestling  in  her  own  heart  and  seemed 
to  give  her  some  consolation  in  the  midst  of  all  the 
bitterness  of  life: 

"My  Clare — my  Clare — we  shall  always  be  to- 
gether. Whatever  may  happen,  nothing  can  sun- 
der us." 

And  the  girl  was  comforted.  She  was  comforted, 
for  she  wept  on  Agnes's  shoulder  for  a  long  time, 
and  Agnes  knew  the  consolation  that  comes  through 
tears. 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 

When  she  lifted  up  her  head  from  its  resting- 
place  she  was  able  to  say: 

"I  will  ask  for  nothing  more,  my  dear  Agnes. 
I  will  ask  for  nothing  better  to  come  to  me  than 
this — to  be  with  you  always — to  feel  that  you  will 
be  ever  near.  You  will  not  turn  from  me,  dear — 
you  will  not  cry  out  for  some  one  to  take  me 
away?" 

She  could  actually  say  the  words  now  with  a 
smile.  She  had,  indeed,  been  comforted. 

"I  will  take  care  of  you,"  said  Agnes.  "I  will 
take  care  that  no  one  shall  come  between  us.  We 
shall  go  away  from  here  to-morrow,  if  you  wish — 
anywhere  you  please.  I  know  of  some  beautiful 
places  along  the  shores  of  the  Mediterranean.  You 
and  I  shall  go  to  one  of  them  and  stay  there  just  as 
long  as  we  please.  Then  we  can  cross  to  Africa. 
You  have  never  been  in  Algiers.  I  was  there  once 
with  my  father.  Everything  you  see  there  is 
strange.  That  is  the  place  which  we  must  seek. 
Sunshine  in  January — sunshine  and  warmth  when 
the  east  wind  is  making  every  one  miserable  in 
England." 

"I  was  hoping  to  see  an  English  spring,"  said 
Clare,  wistfully.  "  But  I  will  go  with  you,"  she 
cried,  with  suddenly  brightening  eyes.  "Oh  yes; 
I  feel  that  I  must  go  somewhere — somewhere — 
anywhere,  so  long  as  it  is  away  from  here." 

Agnes  pressed  her  hand  tenderly,  saying: 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 

"  You  may  trust  in  me." 

Clare  left  the  room  shortly  afterwards,  and  Agnes 
came  upon  her  later  on  in  the  room  that  she  had 
made  her  studio.  She  was  standing  in  front  of  the 
easel  on  which  her  last  half-finished  drawing  rested. 
On  the  small  table  beside  her  were  a  number  of 
memoranda  and  suggestions  for  the  pictures  that 
were  to  illustrate  the  book. 

"Who  will  finish  them  now  ?"  she  said,  as  Agnes 
came  near  and  looked  at  the  sketch  on  the  easel. 
"  Will  they  ever  be  finished  ?  " 

After  a  long  pause  she  turned  away  with  a  sigh. 

"I  wonder  if  it  is  possible  that  he  heard  some- 
thing bad  about  me,"  she  said.  "I  have  heard  of 
stories  being  told  by  unscrupulous  persons — girls — 
about  other  girls.  Is  it  possible,  do  you  think,  that 
some  one  has  poisoned  his  mind  by  falsehoods 
about  me?" 

"No,  no;  do  not  fancy  for  a  moment  that  any- 
thing like  that  happened,"  said  Agnes.  "I  am 
afraid — no — I  should  say  that  I  hope — I  hope  with 
all  my  soul  that  you  may  never  know  the  reason 
for  his  estrangement.  It  is  a  valid  reason — I  can 
give  you  that  assurance;  but  I  dare  tell  you  no 
more.  Now  come  away,  my  dear  child.  What- 
ever has  occurred  be  sure  that  no  blame  attaches 
to  you.  Claude  Westwood  himself  would  never 
think  for  a  moment  that  you  are  to  blame.  Oh, 
my  Clare,  you  are  only  to  be  pitied." 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 319 

The  girl  stood  irresolute  for  a  few  minutes,  then 
she  said: 

"It  is  all  a  mystery — a  terrible  mystery!  But 
God  is  above  us — I  will  trust  in  God." 

In  the  afternoon  Clare  went  to  her  room  to  lie 
down,  and  before  she  had  been  gone  many  minutes 
Sir  Percival  Hope  called  at  The  Knoll. 

When  he  took  Agnes's  hand  he  looked  inquir- 
ingly at  her.  His  expression  seemed  to  say: 

"  Is  the  time  come  yet  ?  " 

He  did  not  let  her  hand  go.  She  did  not  with- 
draw it.  He  could  not  fail  to  see  the  little  flush 
that  had  come  to  her  face. 

"What  you  have  suffered!"  he  said.  "What 
you  are  suffering  still!  You  did  not  sleep  last 
night.  My  poor  Agnes!  I  know  now  that  I  did 
not  give  you  the  right  advice.  You  should  not 
have  been  patient  with  him.  You  should  not  have 
hoped  that  he  would  be  brought  to  you  again.  If  I 
had  given  you  the  advice  which  my  heart  prompted 
me  to  give  I  would  have  said  otherwise  to  you;  but 
I  wanted  to  see  you  made  happy,  and  I  thought 
that  your  happiness  lay  in  patience." 

"You  were  wrong,"  she  said,  with  a  wan  smile. 
"I  was  patient,  but  no  happiness  came  to  me." 

"  And  you  still  love  him  ?"  said  he  in  a  low  voice. 

She  snatched  her  hand  away. 

"I — love  him — him?"  she  cried.  "Oh  no,  no; 
he  is  not  the  man  I  loved.  The  moment  he  came 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 

before  me  with  the  look  of  a  savage  on  his  face 
and  the  words  of  a  savage  thirsting  for  blood  on 
his  lips,  I  knew  that  he  was  not  the  man  I  loved. 
The  man  whom  I  had  promised  to  love — the  man 
for  whom  I  was  waiting,  was  quite  another  one. 
The  Claude  Westwood  who  entered  this  room  had, 
I  perceived,  nothing  in  common  with  the  Claude 
Westwood  who  had  parted  from  me  in  this  same 
room,  saying,  '  I  shall  make  a  name  that  will  be  in 
some  measure  worthy  of  your  acceptance.'  Listen 
to  me  while  I  tell  you  that  that  very  night,  when  I 
went  to  my  room,  I  took  the  miniature  of  the  man 
whom  I  had  loved  and  trampled  upon  it.  And  yet 
— ah,  I  tried  to  force  myself  to  believe  that  I  was 
sorry.  I  tried  to  force  myself  to  believe  that  I 
loved  the  man  who  had  come  to  me  telling  me  that 
his  name  was  Claude  Westwood.  I  knew  in  my 
heart  that  I  did  not  love  him.  Ah,  what  he  said 
to  me  was  true.  He  said — a  smile  was  on  his  face 
all  the  time — '  Every  seven  years  a  man  changes 
utterly:  no  particle  of  him  remains  to-day  as  it  was 
seven  years  ago.'  And  then  he  went  on  to  demon- 
strate, quite  plausibly,  quite  convincingly,  for  in- 
deed he  convinced  me  at  once,  that  it  was  ridicu- 
lous for  a  woman  to  hope  that,  after  seven  years, 
the  same  man  whom  she  had  once  loved  should 
return  to  her;  it  was  physically  impossible,  he 
explained,  and  this  system  he  termed,  very  aptly, 
'Nature's  Statute  of  Limitations.'" 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 321 

"My  poor  Agnes!" 

"Then  it  was  I  knew  that,  so  far  from  being 
sorry  that  that  man  did  not  love  me,  I  felt  glad.  I 
knew  that  there  remained  no  particle  of  love  for 
him  in  my  heart  when  you  told  me  that  he  loved 
Clare  Tristram,  for  I  felt  no  pang  of  jealousy.  Poor 
girl — poor  girl!" 

"  Let  us  talk  no  more  about  him.  Agnes,  has  my 
time  come  yet?  I  have  been  wondering  for  some 
days  past  if  I  should  tell  you— if  I  should  tell  you 
what  I  told  you  on  that  morning  long  ago.  You 
know  that  it  was  true  then;  you  know  that  it  is 
true  now." 

"Not  to-day — I  implore  of  you  not  to  ask  me  to 
say  the  words  that  you  think  will  make  you  happy 
— the  words  which  I  know  will  make  me  happy." 

"  I  will  not  ask  you  to  say  one  word  beyond  that, 
my  beloved." 

He  had  caught  her  hand  and  was  holding  it  in 
both  his  own,  smiling. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  Do  not  assume  too  much,"  she  cried.  "  I  can- 
not be  happy  to-day — oh,  it  would  be  heartless  for 
me  to  be  happy  while  that  girl  is  wretched! " 

"Wretched?  It  cannot  be  possible  that  he  has 
turned  away  from  her  within  a  month?  "said  Sir 
Percival.  "Seven  years,  not  weeks,  was  the  space 
of  time  named  by  him." 

"It  was   impossible    that  anything  but  misery 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 

could  come  of  his  love  for  her,"  said  Agnes.  "The 
misery  has  come.  Poor  child!  1  should  be  inhu- 
man if  I  thought  of  my  own  happiness  to-day  while 
the  waters  have  closed  over  her  head." 

"  I  do  not  want  another  word  from  you,  believe 
me,"  said  he.  "I  am  content — more  than  content 
— with  what  you  have  said  to  me.  There  is  in  my 
heart  nothing  but  hope.  Good-bye." 

He  remembered  that  on  the  morning  when  he 
had  told  her  that  he  loved  her,  she  had  given  him 
her  face  to  kiss.  But  he  made  no  attempt  to  kiss 
her  forehead  now.  He  did  not  even  kiss  her  hand. 
The  curious  pathos  of  her  words,  "I  cannot  be 
happy  to-day,"  had  appealed  strongly  to  him.  He 
was  a  man  who  had  become  accustomed  to  self- 
sacrifice.  He  left  the  house,  having  only  touched 
her  hand. 

She  heard  his  footsteps  passing  away  on  the  hard 
gravel  of  the  drive.  She  recollected  how,  on  that 
morning  when  they  had  been  together  on  the  lawn, 
and  he  had  left  her  with  an  abruptness  that  startled 
her,  she  had  hurried  to  intercept  him  on  the  road. 
The  impulse  was  now  upon  her  to  do  as  she  had 
done  that  morning — to  open  the  window  and  run 
across  the  lawn  into  his  arms.  She  checked  herself, 
however;  she  felt  that  it  would  be  heartless  for  her 
to  have  so  much  happiness  while  Clare  was  over- 
whelmed with  the  misery  that  had  fallen  on  her. 

She  turned   away   from   the  temptation   of  the 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 


window  and  seated  herself  in  the  dim  light  before 
the  fire,  giving  herself  up  to  her  thoughts. 

She  had  not  quite  recovered  from  the  surprise 
that  her  own  confession  to  Sir  Percival  had  caused 
her.  She  had  been  amazed  at  the  impulse  under 
the  force  of  which  she  had  told  him  so  much. 
Until  that  moment  she  had  had  no  idea  what  was 
in  her  heart  —  what  had  been  in  her  heart  since  the 
day  of  Claude  Westwood's  return.  She  knew, 
however,  that  she  had  confessed  the  truth  to  her 
friend:  she  had  been  deceiving  herself  when  she 
thought  she  still  loved  Claude  Westwood  —  when 
she  thought  she  was  sorry  that  she  had  flung  his 
portrait  on  the  floor  of  her  room. 

She  had  found  it  amazingly  easy  to  be  patient  in 
regard  to  his  returning  to  his  old  love  for  her;  but 
it  was  only  when  she  stood  in  front  of  Sir  Percival 
that  she  knew  how  it  was  that  she  had  neither  been 
impatient  for  Claude's  return  to  the  old  love  which 
he  had  borne  for  her,  nor  jealous  when  she  had 
come  to  learn  that  he  loved  Clare  Tristram.  She 
now  knew  that  the  Claude  Westwood  who  had 
come  back  from  Africa  was  not,  in  her  eyes,  the 
Claude  Westwood  whom  she  had  promised  to  love. 

ilcr  awaking  had  come  in  a  moment  —  the  mo- 
ment that  Sir  Percival  had  taken  her  hand.  The 
scales  fell  from  her  eyes  in  a  second,  and  her  own 
heart  was  revealed  to  her,  and  what  she  saw  in  its 
depths  amazed  her.  She  felt  amazed  as  the  con- 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 


fession  was  forced  from  her  in  the  presence  of  the 
man  whom  she  trusted,  and  she  had  not  recovered 
from  that  amazement  when  it  was  time  for  her  to 
go  to  bed.  She  lay  awake,  thinking  over  all  that 
had  been  revealed  to  her,  and  wondering  how  it 
was  that  she  had  been  blind  so  long.  It  never  oc- 
curred to  her  now  to  ask  herself  if  what  she  had 
said  to  Sir  Percival  was  true  or  false.  When  people 
see  plainly  the  things  before  their  eyes  they  do  not 
need  to  puzzle  over  the  question  of  the  reality  of 
those  things. 

The  next  day  Clare  was  much  more  tranquil  than 
she  had  been  before.  There  was  a  certain  bright- 
ness in  her  eyes  that  gave  Agnes  great  hope  that 
her  future  would  not  be  so  clouded,  but  that  a 
glimpse  of  sunshine  would  touch  it.  She  made  no 
allusion  to  Claude  Westwood  or  his  book;  and  after 
breakfast  Agnes  saw  with  pleasure  that  she  had 
gone  outside  to  feed  the  pigeons.  She  stood  among 
them,  calling  them  about  her  with  that  musical 
croon  which  acted  like  magic  upon  them;  and  they 
alighted  upon  her  shoulders  and  whirled  about  her 
head,  just  as  they  had  done  on  the  afternoon  she 
had  arrived,  when  Claude  had  looked  out  at  her. 

Agnes  was  once  again  overcome  with  self-re- 
proach as  she  thought  how  it  might  have  been  pos- 
sible for  her  to  prevent  the  misery  that  had  entered 
the  girl's  life. 

"  If  1  had  only  known  —  if  I  had  only  considered 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 325 

the  possibility  which  every  one  else  but  myself 
would  have  regarded  as  not  merely  possible — not 
merely  probable — but  absolutely  inevitable,  I  would 
have  taken  her  away  the  next  day,"  she  moaned. 

She  turned  away  from  the  window  with  tears  in 
her  eyes,  and  when  she  looked  out  again,  hearing 
footsteps  on  the  drive,  Clare  was  not  to  be  seen. 
It  was  the  postman  who  was  coming  up  to  the 
house. 

Three  letters  were  brought  to  Agnes.  Two  of 
them  were  ordinary  business  communications:  the 
third  was  in  the  handwriting  of  Cyril.  She  had 
received  two  letters  from  her  brother  since  he  had 
arrived  in  Australia,  and  both  were  written  in  the 
most  hopeful  spirit.  He  had,  he  said,  found  the  life 
that  suited  him. 

She  cut  open  the  envelope,  and  began  to  read  the 
letter.  But  before  she  had  finished  the  first  page,  a 
puzzled  look  came  to  her  face.  She  laid  the  letter 
down  for  a  moment  and  put  her  hand  to  her  fore- 
head. In  another  second  she  had  sprung  to  her  feet 
with  a  short  cry — not  loud,  but  agonising  — 

"Oh,  my  God!  my  God!  the  thought  of  it— he 
—he — my  brother!  " 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

THE  letter  dropped  from  her  hand  to  the  floor. 
She  felt  her  knees  give  way.  She  staggered  to  a 
sofa  and  fell  upon  it.  Her  eyes  closed.  She  had 
not  fainted,  however:  the  blessing  of  unconscious- 
ness was  denied  to  her.  She  could  hear  through 
the  stillness  every  word  of  the  conversation  that 
took  place  between  the  postman  and  one  of  the 
maids  who  had  been  exchanging  pots  of  heath  for 
the  porch  with  the  gardener.  The  postman  had 
clearly  brought  some  piece  of  news  of  an  enthrall- 
ing character,  for  its  discussion  involved  many  in- 
terjectional  comments  in  the  local  dialect. 

She  could  hear  every  word  now,  though  she  had 
not  paid  any  attention  to  the  beginning  of  the  con- 
versation, having  been  in  the  act  of  reading  Cyril's 
letter. 

What  was  it  that  they  were  talking  about  ? 

A  murder  ? — it  must  have  been  a  murder.  The 
postman  became  graphic  as  he  described  the  nature 
of  the  wound.  Agnes  fancied  she  could  hear  the 
servant  breathing  hard  in  compliment  to  the  skill 
of  the  narrator.  The  wound  had  been  caused  by  a 
shot — so  much  was  certain — it  had  struck  the  victim 
in  the  back  and  he  had  fallen  forward  clutching  at 
the  grass,  "like  this,"  the  narrator  said — the  pause 

326 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 327 

of  a  few  seconds  was  filled  up  by  low  exclamations 
of  horror. 

He  was  describing  the  murder  of  Dick  West- 
wood,  Agnes  believed;  for  the  details,  so  far  as  she 
heard,  applied  to  that  crime.  She  glanced  with  an 
affrighted  eye  toward  Cyril's  letter  that  still  lay 
on  the  floor — yes,  but  why  should  they  be  talking 
about  the  murder  of  Mr.  Westwood  upon  this  day 
in  particular?  Why  should  the  postman  pause  in 
his  round  to  describe  with  a  skill  which  only  comes 
of  long  practice  and  a  thorough  acquaintance  with 
the  susceptibilities  of  a  rustic  audience,  a  deed 
which  had  been  described  times  without  number 
during  a  period  of  several  months  ? 

"There  he  lay  in  his  own  plantation,  and  there 
they  found  him,"  continued  the  man,  when  he  had 
illustrated  the  attitude  of  the  man  who  was  shot. 
"They  found  him  and  thought  he  was  dead.  He 
wasn't,  just  at  that  moment,  but  I  heard  said  that  the 
doctor  was  ready  to  take  his  oath  that  he  couldn't 
be  alive  for  six  hours,  so  mayhap  he's  gone  to  his 
last  long  'count  by  now,  good  friends.  For  Sur- 
geon Ogden  is  none  of  the  men  that  pulls  a  long 
jaw  down  at  every  little  matter,  whether  natural — 
like  females,  or  more  terrifying,  of  the  likes  of  us 
— nay,  he's  ever  cheery,  as  you  may  know  if  you've 
been  that  fort'nate  to  come  under  his  hands — ever 
cheery  in  hisself,  though  of  course,  being  polite,  he 
feels  hisself  bound  to  be  as  grave  as  the  gravest 


328  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 


when  some  of  their  ladyships  fancies  that  there's 
summat  wrong  wi'  'em.  Ah  no;  the  surgeon  is  too 
much  the  gentleman  hisself  to  make  light  o'  th'  ail- 
ments o'  the  nobility,  as  though  they  was  as  humble 
as  us.  And  to  be  sure,  if  you  give  it  a  doo  con- 
sideration, good  people,  you'll  find  it  quite  reason- 
able and  natural-like  for  him  that  comes  to  cure 
to  make  out  a  case  to  be  as  evil  as  possible — 
'tis  on  the  self-same  principle  that  Tombs,  the  tailor, 
makes  out  that  our  old  coats  are  terrible  far  gone 
when  we  take  'em  to  be  repaired,  so  that  when  he 
sends  'em  home  as  fresh  as  new  we  think  a  deal  of 
his  skill.  Ay,  and  for  that  matter  his  reverence  the 
vicar,  or  even  a  simple-minded  curate,  will  tell  us 
by  the  hour  how  terrible  steeped  in  evil  all  of  us  is, 
so  that  when  he  gets  one  to  take  the  pledge  we 
looks  on  'un  as  a  dreadful  sharp  gentleman  to  be 
able  to  make  us  presentable.  Well,  well,  him  that 
lies  dead  this  day  was  mayhap  a  bit  hard,  but  'tis  a 
sad  fate  to  fall  upon  any  man ;  and  so  God  help  us 
all." 

Agnes  heard  every  word  that  came  from  the 
long-winded  postman,  and  the  succeeding  com- 
ments of  his  auditors.  But  her  attention  had  not 
been  taken  away  from  the  letter  which  was  lying 
on  the  floor.  It  was  only  because  it  seemed  to  her 
that  the  subject  of  the  man's  story  was  the  same  as 
that  of  the  letter,  she  had  been  startled  into  listen- 
ing— curiously,  eagerly. 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 329 

But  the  instant  the  drone  of  the  man  and  the 
long-drawn  and  wondering  sighs  of  the  maid  had 
ceased,  she  got  to  her  feet — not  without  an  effort — 
and  crossed  the  room  to  where  the  letter  was  lying. 
She  looked  at  it  for  some  time  before  she  stooped 
and  picked  it  up.  She  went  over  every  line  of  it 
again,  saying  in  a  whisper  the  words  that  it  con- 
tained. It  was  a  short  letter. 

Could  she  by  any  possibility  have  misread  it  the 
first  time  ?  It  was  a  short  letter:  — 

"With  what  feelings,  dear  Agnes,  will  you  read 
this  letter!  But  I  feel  that  I  must  write  it — I  should 
have  confessed  all  to  you  when  I  could  have  done 
so  face  to  face,  but  I  was  a  coward.  Often  at  night 
aboard  the  steamer  coming  out  here,  I  thought  upon 
my  guilt,  and  night  by  night  when  in  the  midst  of 
the  great  pasturages  I  have  thought  over  it,  and  felt 
how  great  a  ruffian  I  was,  especially  as  another  is 
suffering  for  my  sin.  I  cannot  endure  the  stinging 
of  my  conscience  any  longer.  Agnes,  I  must  make 
a  clean  breast  of  it  to  you.  Hear  me  and  do  not 
abhor  me  utterly  when  I  confess  to  you  now  that 
that  sin — that  crime  which  came  to  light  in  the 
summer — you  will  know  to  what  1  allude — I  cannot 
name  it  to  you — was  mine.  I  kept  my  guilt  a  secret 
and  allowed  one  who  was  innocent  to  suffer  for  me. 
Was  there  ever  so  base,  so  cowardly  a  wretch  ?  I 
am  unworthy  to  be  your  brother.  Only  one  way 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 

remains  to  me  of  making  reparation,  and  you  know 
what  that  way  is.  I  am  coming  home  by  next 
steamer.  Dearest  Agnes,  can  you  ever  forgive  me 
for  the  disgrace  I  have  brought  upon  you  ?  Indeed, 
I  feel  that  this  is  the  bitterest  part  of  my  punish- 
ment— the  knowledge  that  I  have  disgraced  our 

name. 

"  CYRIL." 

She  read  the  letter  a  second  time.  It  left  no  loop- 
hole of  escape  for  her.  Its  meaning  was  but  too 
plain.  It  appeared  in  every  line.  The  crime — there 
was  only  one  crime  to  which  it  could  refer — there 
was  only  one  crime  for  which  an  innocent  man  was 
suffering  punishment. 

Once  again  the  letter  dropped  from  her  hand. 
She  looked  at  her  fingers  that  had  held  it  as  though 
it  had  been  written  with  blood  that  left  a  stain  be- 
hind it.  For  some  moments  she  gazed  at  the  thing 
lying  on  the  floor  at  her  feet,  trying  to  comprehend 
all  that  it  meant  to  her.  She  felt  stunned,  as  though 
she  had  been  struck  on  the  head  with  a  heavy 
weapon.  The  sense  of  what  that  letter  meant  be- 
numbed her.  She  was  overwhelmed  by  the  force 
of  the  blow  which  she  had  received. 

She  stood  there  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  both 
her  hands  pressed  against  her  heart.  She  could 
hear  its  wild  beating  through  the  silence.  The 
force  of  its  beating  caused  her  to  sway  to  and  fro 
on  her  feet. 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 


"  It  is  folly  —  folly!  "  she  said,  as  if  trying  by  giv- 
ing articulation  to  her  thoughts  to  convince  herself 
against  the  evidence  of  her  own  judgment.  "It  is 
folly!  He  was  his  friend  —  Dick  Westwood  was  his 
friend.  Why  should  he  have  killed  him  ?  He 
dined  at  the  Court  that  very  night  —  he  —  Good  God! 
he  was  the  last  to  see  him  alive.  Let  me  think  —  let 
me  think!  What  did  he  say?  Yes,  he  said  that 
Dick  had  walked  across  the  park  with  him.  He 
admitted  that  he  was  the  last  person  with  whom 
Dick  had  spoken.  Oh,  my  God—  my  God!  he  has 
written  the  truth  —  why  should  he  write  anything 
but  the  truth  ?  Why  should  he  be  mad  enough  to 
confess  to  a  crime  that  he  never  committed  ?  He 
killed  him,  and  he  is  my  brother!  Oh,  fool  —  fool- 
that  I  was  !  I  could  not  see  that  that  girl  was  sent 
through  the  mercy  of  God.  She  was  sent  here  that 
the  man  who  loved  her  might  be  saved  from  marry- 
ing me.  But,  thank  God!  I  have  learned  the  truth 
before  it  is  too  late." 

And  then,  as  she  stood  there,  she  recalled  the 
most  trivial  incidents  of  the  morning  after  the 
murder  of  Dick  Westwood.  She  remembered  how 
late  it  was  when  Cyril  had  appeared  —  how  he  had 
made  excuse  after  excuse  for  remaining  in  bed.  In 
every  trivial  act  of  his  she  perceived  such  evidence 
of  his  guilt  that  she  was  amazed  that  no  one  had 
attached  suspicion  to  him.  Why,  even  the  fact  of 
his  having  so  eagerly  accepted  the  offer  of  an  ap- 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 


pointment  on  a  sheep  station  in  Australia  should 
have  made  her  suspect  that  he  had  the  gravest  of 
reasons  for  wishing  to  get  away  from  the  country. 
She  now  saw  that  his  anxiety  was  to  leave  the 
scene  of  his  crime  behind  him. 

Then  she  thought  of  the  days  that  preceded  his 
escape — that  was  how  she  had  come  to  regard  his 
sailing  for  Australia — how  terrible  her  trouble  had 
been  with  him.  She  had  felt  that  he  was  going  to 
destruction,  idling  about  the  tap-rooms  of  Bracken- 
hurst,  walking  with  the  most  disreputable  men  to 
be  found  in  the  neighbourhood — utterly  regardless 
of  appearances  and  impatient  at  her  remonstrances. 
Thinking  of  all  this  in  the  light  of  the  confession 
which  she  had  just  read,  she  was  left  to  wonder 
how  it  was  possible  that  she  had  failed — that  every 
one  in  Brackenhurst  had  failed — to  attach  suspicion 
to  him. 

"  He  did  it — he  did  it! "  she  whispered. 

Once  again  with  a  flicker  of  hope  that  was  more 
dispiriting  than  despair,  she  read  the  letter,  and  with 
a  cry  of  agony  fell  back  upon  the  sofa  and  laid  her 
head,  face  downward,  upon  one  of  its  arms.  Claude 
Westwood  had  uttered  his  curse  against  the  mur- 
derer of  his  brother  and  against  all  that  pertained  to 
him!  She  had  been  horrified  at  the  thought  of 
Clare;  but  the  curse  had  fallen,  and  she,  Agnes,  was 
crushed  beneath  it.  Her  brother  was  on  his  way 
home  to  pay  the  penalty  of  his  crime,  and  Clare  — 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 333 

She  got  upon  her  feet,  and  stood  with  one  hand 
grasping  the  back  of  the  sofa,  as  the  thought 
flashed  through  her  mind:  Clare  would  be  happy. 
There  was  now  no  reason  why  she  and  Claude 
might  not  marry.  Even  at  that  moment,  when  the 
horror  that  had  rested  on  Clare's  head  had  been 
shifted  to  her  own,  Agnes  felt  a  thrill  of  satisfaction 
when  she  reflected  that  it  was  in  her  power  to  give 
Clare  happiness. 

She  took  a  step  to  the  bell-rope,  but  while  it  was 
still  in  her  hand,  a  thought  suddenly  flashed  through 
her  mind:  the  story  which  the  postman  had  been 
telling  to  the  gardener  and  the  maidservant — to 
what  did  it  refer  ? — to  whom  did  it  refer  ? 

Some  one  had  been  shot  during  the  night — so 
much  she  had  gathered  from  the  rambling  dis- 
course of  the  man;  she  had  not  given  much  atten- 
tion to  all  that  he  had  said,  but  she  recollected  that 
it  had  struck  her  as  singular  that  the  incidents  of  the 
matter  to  which  his  story  referred  closely  resembled 
those  of  the  murder  of  Dick  Westwood:  the  man 
might  have  been  describing  the  latter.  The  victim 
had,  she  gathered,  been  shot  in  the  back,  and — 
what  had  the  man  said  ? — he  had  been  shot  in  his 
own  grounds.  Some  one  had  been  shot  in  his  own 
grounds  ?  Who — who — who  ? 

Why,  who  could  it  be  but  Sir  Percival  Hope? 
It  could  be  no  one  but  Sir  Percival  Hope — the  man 
whom  she  loved. 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 

That  was  the  terrible  thought  that  swooped  down 
upon  her,  so  to  speak — that  hawklike  thought  that 
struck  its  talons  through  her;  and  at  that  moment 
such  doubts  as  might  have  lingered  in  her  heart 
were  swept  away.  She  now  knew  that  she  loved 
Sir  Percival  Hope,  who  was  lying  at  the  point  of 
death,  if  the  man  who  had  come  with  the  story  had 
spoken  the  truth. 

"Thank  Heaven — thank  Heaven  that  he  knew  the 
truth  before  he  died;  thank  Heaven  that  he  knew 
I  loved  him;  and  thank  Heaven  that  he  died  before 
he  could  know  that  other  truth — that  we  could 
never  be  anything  more  to  each  other  than  we 
were.  I  should  have  had  to  tell  him  that — all  that 
that  letter  has  told  to  me.  But  I  have  still  to  tell 
some  one  of  it.  Who  is  it — who  is  it  ?  " 

Her  brain  was  whirling.  She  had  forgotten  for 
the  moment  that  Clare  had  to  be  made  happy;  and 
some  moments  had  passed  before  the  sight  of  the 
bell-rope  brought  back  her  thoughts  to  the  object 
which  she  had  originally  before  her  in  going  to  it. 
She  rang  the  bell,  and  when  the  butler  appeared  she 
had  her  voice  sufficiently  under  control  to  ask  him 
to  tell  her  maid  to  find  Miss  Tristram  and  send  her 
to  the  drawing-room. 

As  the  butler  was  leaving  the  room  she  said — and 
now  her  voice  was  not  quite  so  firm  as  it  had  been: 

"I  heard  the  postman  telling  some  story  to  the 
gardener  just  now.  Has  some  one  been  hurt?" 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 335 

The  man  did  not  answer  for  a  second  or  two,  but 
that  space  was  sufficient  to  send  her  thoughts  wan- 
dering once  more  on  a  different  track. 

"Merciful  Heaven!"  she  cried.  "It  cannot  be 
possible  that  it  is  Mr.  Westwood  who  was  shot,  as 
his  brother  was — within  his  own  grounds  ?  " 

"Oh  no,  ma'am,  it's  not  so  bad  as  that,"  replied 
the  butler.  "So  far  as  I  hear,  it  was  the  poachers 
that  have  been  about  Westwood  Court  one  night 
and  the  Abbey  Woods  another  night  for  the  past 
month.  It  seems  that  Ralph  Dangan,  Sir  Percival 
Hope's  new  keeper — him  that  was  at  the  Court  for 
so  long — he  came  upon  them  suddenly  last  night 
and  they  shot  him.  The  story  is  that  the  poor  man 
was  not  likely  to  live  longer  than  a  few  hours." 

Agnes  gave  a  sigh — she  wondered  if  the  butler 
would  know  that  it  was  a  sigh  of  relief  rather  than 
one  of  sympathy  for  the  unhappy  man  who  had 
been  shot. 

"  Poor  fellow!  "  she  said.  "  I  hope  his  daughter 
has  been  sent  for." 

"I  didn't  hear  anything  in  that  way,  ma'am," 
said  the  butler.  "  If  she  went  to  Sir  Percival's  sis- 
ter, he  will  know  her  address,  but  they  say  that 
poor  Dangan  always  refused  to  see  her,  though  she 
was  a  good  daughter  except  for  her  one  slip." 

He  left  the  room,  and  Agnes  sat  wondering  how 
it  was  that  she  had  been  led  to  feel  with  such  cer- 
tainty that  the  story  of  the  man  who  was  shot  re- 


336  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 


ferred  to  Sir  Percival.  And  in  its  turn  this  question 
of  hers  became  a  terror  to  her,  for  in  her  condition 
of  excitement  she  had  lost  all  capacity  to  judge  of 
incidents  in  an  unprejudiced  way.  The  condition 
of  her  brain  caused  her  to  distort  every  matter 
which  she  tried  to  consider  on  its  merits. 

She  waited  so  long  without  any  one  appearing 
that  she  had  actually  forgotten  what  was  the  object 
of  her  waiting,  and  she  was  surprised  when  her 
maid  came  into  the  room  saying: 

"I  cannot  find  Miss  Tristram  in  the  house,  Miss 
Mowbray.  I  think  she  must  have  gone  out  for  a 
walk  by  the  lower  gate;  she  could  not  have  left  by 
the  drive  without  my  seeing  her,  for  I  was  sitting 
at  the  window  of  the  workroom  sewing." 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

"h*  is  strange  that  she  should  have  gone  out  with- 
out letting  me  know,"  said  Agnes.  "  I  don't  think 
that  it  is  likely  she  would  leave  the  grounds  by  the 
lower  gate.  She  must  still  be  somewhere  in  the 
garden.  Having  fed  the  pigeons  she  might  have 
strayed  up  to  the  Knoll." 

The  Knoll  was  the  small  hillock  overgrown  with 
pines  from  which  the  house  took  its  name. 

"She  was  in  her  dressing-room  since  she  fed  the 
pigeons,"  said  the  maid.  "I  fancied  that  I  heard 
her  leave  the  room,  but  no  one  appears  to  have  no- 
ticed whether  she  left  the  house  or  not." 

"  You  will  please  send  a  couple  of  the  servants 
round  the  grounds  and  up  to  the  Knoll,"  said  Agnes. 
"It  is  rather  important  that  she  should  be  found 
with  as  little  delay  as  possible." 

"1  beg  your  pardon,"  cried  the  maid  quickly. 
"I  did  not  know  that  you  wanted  Miss  Tristram 
particularly.  I  understood  that  you  were  making  a 
casual  inquiry  for  her.  Not  a  moment  shall  be  lost 
in  seeking  for  her." 

When  the  door  closed  behind  the  maid,  poor 
Agnes  once  again  began  to  take  exaggerated  views 
of  the  simplest  occurrences.  The  disappearance  of 
337 


338  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 

Clare  she  thought  of  as  something  mysterious. 
Why  should  she  go  away  without  acquainting  any 
one  of  the  fact  that  she  was  leaving  the  house  ? 
Why  should  she  steal  out  by  the  lower  gate,  which 
involved  a  walk  through  the  damp  grass  of  the 
shrubberies  ?  The  lower  gate  was  scarcely  ever 
used  in  the  winter  months,  and  but  rarely  in  the 
summer  except  by  the  gardener,  whose  cottage  was 
at  that  part  of  the  grounds. 

The  incident  assumed  in  her  excited  brain  a  mag- 
nitude which  in  ordinary  circumstances  she  would 
never  think  of  attributing  to  it.  And  her  reflection 
in  regard  to  this  incident  was  followed  by  a  sus- 
picion that  caused  her  to  cover  her  eyes  with  her 
hands. 

She  was  endeavouring  to  shut  out  the  horrible 
sight  which  might  be  before  the  eyes  of  the  serv- 
ants who  were  searching  the  grounds.  She  had 
heard  of  sensitive  girls,  such  as  Clare  undoubtedly 
was,  making  away  with  themselves  when  overcome 
with  grief;  and  she  began  to  wonder  how  it  was 
that  she  had  failed  to  see  something  more  than 
usually  pathetic  in  that  picture  of  the  girl  surrounded 
by  her  pigeons  on  the  lawn.  That  was  the  picture 
which  had  come  before  the  eyes  of  Claude  West- 
wood,  and  that  was  the  picture  which  would  always 
remain  in  her  own  memory,  Agnes  was  assured — 
the  last  look  she  had  had  of  the  sweet  girl  who  was 
now  — 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 339 

She  shuddered  at  the  thought  that  came  to  her; 
for  with  it  came  a  cry  of  self-reproach : 

"It  is  I — I — who  have  killed  her!  She  may  have 
been  alive  when  I  got  the  letter  that  should  have 
given  her  happiness;  but  I  waited — I  tried  to  de- 
ceive myself  into  the  belief  that  I  had  misread  the 
letter  when  its  meaning  was  clear  to  me  from  the 
first.  I  have  killed  her!  " 

She  rushed  from  the  room  and  hurried  up  the 
stairs  to  the  apartment  that  Clare  had  occupied. 
She  turned  the  handle  of  the  door  with  trembling 
fingers,  and  looked  fearfully  into  the  room,  not 
knowing  what  horrible  sight  might  await  her  there. 
But  the  room  was  the  same  as  ever;  only  when  she 
entered  did  she  notice  that  the  bed  was  slightly 
pressed  down  in  the  centre,  and  that  the  pillow  was 
no  longer  smooth;  it  was  tossed,  and  there  was  a 
mark  that  was  still  damp  upon  it. 

She  knew  that  Clare  had  suddenly  flung  herself 
down  on  the  bed,  and  had  left  the  traces  of  her  tears 
upon  the  pillow. 

She  gave  a  start,  hearing  the  sound  of  feet  on  the 
oak  of  the  hall.  The  servants  had  returned  from 
their  search,  and  the  shuffling  of  their  feet  told  her 
that  they  were  carrying  something  with  them — 
something  with  a  cloak  over  it — a  pall  over  it.  She 
put  up  her  hands  to  her  eyes  once  more  to  shut  out 
that  sight;  and  then  she  heard  the  quiet  steps  of 
some  one  ascending. 


340  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 

She  knew  what  this  meant:  some  one  was  com- 
ing to  break  the  awful  news  to  her  as  gently  as 
possible. 

She  was  standing  at  the  half-open  door  when  the 
maid  reached  the  lobby. 

"  You  need  tell  me  nothing;  I  see  upon  your  face 
all  that  you  come  to  tell  me,"  whispered  Agnes. 

The  woman  looked  at  her  in  surprise. 

"I  fear  you  are  not  quite  well,  ma'am,"  she  said 
quietly.  "We  did  not  need  to  search  far:  the 
gardener  came  up  and  told  us  that  he  had  met  Miss 
Tristram  walking  on  the  road  not  more  than  half- 
an-hour  ago.  He  had  been  down  to  the  larches 
and  Miss  Tristram  was  going  in  the  direction  of 
Unwin  Church.  It  was  as  I  suggested:  she  was 
taking  a  walk,  having  left  the  grounds  by  the 
lower  gate.  I  am  sure  that  she  will  be  back  again 
before  lunch.  Are  you  not  well,  Miss  Mow  bray  ?  " 

"I  am  quite  well,"  said  Agnes.  "I  was  only  a 
little  surprised  that  Miss  Tristram  could  have  left 
the  grounds  without  my  noticing  her  do  so.  1  was 
in  the  drawing-room  all  the  time." 

She  went  to  her  own  room  and  stood  at  the  win- 
dow, wondering  how  it  was  that  she  had  been  so 
certain  that  Clare  had  resolved  to  die.  Was  it  be- 
cause she  herself  was  ready  to  welcome  death  at 
that  moment  ?  She  fell  on  her  knees  and  prayed 
that  she  might  have  strength  to  live — she  prayed 
that  she  might  have  strength  to  resist  the  tempta- 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL-  341 

tion  to  end  in  a  moment  the  terrible  consciousness 
that  in  another  week  or  two  all  the  world  would  be 
ringing  with  the  name  which  she  bore — the  con- 
sciousness that  every  finger  would  be  pointed  at 
her,  while  those  who  pointed  at  her  would  whisper 
the  name  of  her  brother.  She  prayed  for  strength 
to  bear  the  appalling  burden  which  had  been  laid 
upon  her. 

In  that  nervous  condition  which  was  hers  she  felt 
that  she  must  do  something:  she  could  not  rest 
patiently  until  the  return  of  Clare.  She  felt  that  as 
she  had  told  Claude  the  secret  which  had  placed  a 
gulf  between  him  and  Clare,  it  was  right  that  she 
should  tell  him  without  delay  that,  although  it  was 
true  that  the  girl  was  the  daughter  of  Carton  Stand- 
ish,  yet  Carton  Standish  was  innocent  of  the  crime 
for  which  he  was  suffering  imprisonment. 

She  rang  her  bell,  and  gave  orders  for  the 
brougham ;  and  then,  with  nervous  hands,  she  put 
on  her  fur  coat  and  hat,  and  went  down  to  the  hall 
fire  to  wait  for  the  sound  of  wheels.  The  butler, 
who  was  bringing  some  silver  into  the  dining-room 
for  the  luncheon  table,  paused  for  a  moment  and 
asked  her  if  she  would  wish  the  hour  for  lunch  to  be 
delayed.  She  told  him  that  lunch  was  to  be  served 
when  Miss  Tristram  should  come  in. 

A  sudden  thought  occurred  to  her.  She  would 
not  keep  Clare  waiting  for  her  good  news  should 
she  come  in  before  her  own  return  from  the  Court. 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 

She  had  thought  of  driving  Claude  back  with  her  in 
the  brougham  after  she  had  communicated  her 
good  news  to  him — it  would  be  good  news  to  him. 
What  did  he  care  how  heavy  was  the  blow  that 
had  fallen  upon  her  so  long  as  he  was  free  to  marry 
Clare  ? 

She  went  into  the  study  and  wrote  a  few  lines  on 
a  sheet  of  paper: 

"  DEAREST, — God  has  been  good  to  you.  Some- 
thing like  a  miracle  has  happened,  and  the  barrier 
which  Claude  saw  between  you  and  him  is  re- 
moved. I  am  bringing  him  to  you.  Wait  for  our 

coming. 

"  AGNES." 

She  addressed  the  cover  and  desired  the  butler  to 
give  it  to  Clare  the  moment  she  returned. 

At  last  the  sound  of  the  brougham  was  heard  on 
the  drive.  She  entered  the  carriage  after  satisfying 
herself  that  Cyril's  confession  was  in  her  pocket. 

The  butler  at  the  Court  said  that  Mr.  Westwood 
was  not  at  home  at  that  moment;  he  thought  that 
most  likely  he  was  gone  to  the  cottage  of  Dangan, 
Sir  Percival  Hope's  keeper,  who,  as  perhaps  Miss 
Mowbray  had  heard,  had  been  shot  during  the 
night.  Mr.  Westwood  had  said,  before  leaving  the 
Court,  that  he  would  be  back  for  lunch,  so  perhaps 
Miss  Mowbray  would  wait  in  the  drawing-room 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL-  343 

for  his  coming.  It  was  unlikely  that  he  would  be 
late. 

Miss  Mowbray  said  she  would  wait,  and  was 
shown  into  the  drawing-room. 

For  a  few  minutes  after  seating  herself  she  was 
calm;  but  then  her  brain  began  to  whirl  once  more. 
The  thought  came  to  her  that  she  was  in  the  very 
room  where  Cyril  and  Dick  had  sat  on  that  night 
before  the  horrible  deed  was  done.  She  started  up, 
thinking  that  perhaps  she  was  sitting  in  the  very 
chair  in  which  her  brother  had  sat  looking  in  the 
face  of  the  man  whom  he  meant  to  kill. 

She  glanced  at  the  portrait  on  the  easel  and 
seemed  to  see  once  again  the  form  of  Dick  West- 
wood  beside  the  window  through  which  he  had 
gone  to  his  death. 

"Why  did  he  do  it— why — oh,  why?"  she 
whispered.  "You  were  always  so  good  to  him, 
Dick — you  were  always  his  friend  when  every  one 
else  shunned  him.  How  could  he  do  it  ?" 

She  had  begun  to  pace  the  room  wildly,  but 
after  some  moments  a  curious  doubt  seemed  to 
cross  her  mind.  She  took  the  letter  out  of  her 
pocket  and  read  it  for  the  third  time  with  beating 
heart,  for  the  echo  of  that  question  of  hers,  "Why 
— why — why  ?  "  seemed  to  ring  round  the  room. 
Surely  she  must  have  misread  it. 

She  crushed  it  into  her  pocket  once  more. 

"It  is  there— there,"  she  whispered.     "He  con- 


344  WELL,  AFTER  ALL- 


fesses  it.     There  is  no  hope  for  me.     No  hope — no 
hope"-- 

She  had  begun  pacing  the  room  once  more,  and 
as  she  spoke  she  found  herself  standing  in  front  of 
the  glazed  case  of  poisoned  arrows  which  Claude 
had  brought  back  with  him  from  Africa. 

She  looked  at  the  arrows  and  repeated  the  words, 
"  No  hope — no  hope." 

The  beating  of  her  heart  sounded  through  the 
stillness. 

"I  was  wrong — I  was  wrong,"  she  whispered, 
with  her  eyes  still  gazing  at  those  strange  things 
as  if  they  had  power  to  fascinate  her.  She  looked 
at  them,  then  with  a  shudder  she  turned  and  fled 
across  the  room.  "No,  no,  not  that— not  that!" 
she  cried. 

She  stood  beside  the  screen  at  the  other  side  of 
the  room;  and  then  she  seemed  to  hear  again  the 
voice  which  had  said  those  words  in  her  ear — 
"The  sister  of  a  murderer — the  sister  of  the  man 
who  killed  his  best  friend.  He  will  be  here  in 
a  day  or  two  and  all  the  world  will  ring  with  his 
name — with  your  name.  There  is  no  hope  for  you 
— no  hope! " 

She  put  her  hands  over  her  ears,  trying  to  shut 
out  that  dread  voice;  but  it  would  not  be  shut  out. 
It  came  to  her  with  maddening  monotony.  She 
walked  to  and  fro  saying  beneath  her  breath: 

"Mercy — mercy — for  God's  sake,  mercy!" 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL-  345 

She  made  a  pause  as  if  listening  for  something. 
Then  with  a  cry,  in  the  agony  of  her  despair,  she 
rushed  back  to  the  case  of  arrows  and  crashed  in 
the  glass  with  both  her  gloved  hands. 

In  a  second  her  hands  were  grasped  from  behind. 

"  Agnes!    Agnes,  my  beloved!  "  said  Sir  Percival. 

She  turned  to  him,  looking  wonderingly  up  to 
his  face. 

"My  dearest,  what  has  happened?  What  does 
that  mean?" 

He  pointed  to  the  broken  glass  while  he  was 
leading  her  away. 

"You  will  soon  know  all,"  she  said.  "I  have 
the  letter — it  will  tell  you  what  I  have  no  words  to 
tell." 

He  took  the  letter  from  her  hand,  and  with  one 
of  his  hands  still  holding  hers,  he  read  it. 

"This  tells  me  no  more  than  I  have  known  from 
the  first,"  said  he. 

"What,  you  knew  that  he  was  guilty  ?"  she  said. 

"I  knew  it:  I  hoped  that  he  would  confess  to 
you." 

"Good  God!  You  knew  of  his  guilt  and  let  the 
innocent  man  suffer?" 

"I  heard  nothing  of  that.  I  liked  the  girl  for 
keeping  the  secret;  he  will  marry  her  now." 

She  stared  at  him. 

"Who  is  the  girl  that  knew  it  was  he  who  killed 
Richard  Westwood  ?  "  she  asked. 


346  WELL,  AFTER  ALL 


"My  poor  Agnes!  You  are  the  victim  of  some 
dreadful  misapprehension,"  said  Sir  Percival. 
"This  confession  refers  to  Lizzie  Dangan's  fault." 

"  What!  But  the  murder — surely  it  can  have  but 
one  meaning?"  she  cried. 

"Oh,  my  beloved,  I  see  it  all  now.  Thank 
Heaven  that  I  came  in  time  to  save  you.  You 
assumed  that  your  brother's  confession  referred  to 
the  murder  of  Richard  Westwood.  You  were 
wrong.  I  have  just  come  from  hearing  the  con- 
fession of  the  man  who  shot  poor  Westwood,  and 
who  died  a  quarter  of  an  hour  ago.  It  was  Ralph 
Dangan  who  shot  Richard  Westwood  with  the  re- 
volver that  by  ill-luck  he  had  found  on  the  grass 
where  the  man  Standish  had  thrown  it.  Dangan 
had  seen  Mr.  Westwood  with  Lizzie  that  night — 
she  had  gone  to  him  secretly  for  advice — and  he 
shot  him,  believing  that  he  was  the  girl's  lover." 

Agnes  looked  at  him  for  a  long  time.  She 
walked  to  the  window  and  stood  there  for  some 
moments;  then  with  a  cry  she  turned  and  stretched 
out  her  arms  to  him. 

"My  beloved — my  beloved,  you  have  suffered; 
but  your  days  of  suffering  are  over!  "  he  whispered, 
as  he  held  her  close  to  him. 

****** 

There  were  voices  at  the  door. 
Claude  Westwood  entered,  followed  by  Clare; 
he  hurried  to  Agnes. 


WELL,  AFTER  ALL 347 

"  For  God's  sake,  tell  her  nothing!  It  is  too  late 
now — she  is  my  wife,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

"Agnes — dearest,  you  will  forgive  me — but  he 
sent  for  me,  and  I  love  him,"  said  Clare. 

"Tell  him,"  said  Agnes  to  Sir  Percival,  "tell 
him  that  it  was  Ralph  Dangan  who  killed  poor 
Dick." 


THE   END. 


A     000110841     4 


